


Black and Hollow and Cold

by LuciferianRising



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma, Cults, Emotional Constipation, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Past Child Abuse, lots of tears and crying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferianRising/pseuds/LuciferianRising
Summary: "It should have been cut and dry. Walter was evil, that much was true. But throughout his travels, Henry had been witness to so many spine chilling accounts of abuse; abuse that was directed at his potential killer, abuse that absolutely no one should have the displeasure of going through. Tales of beatings and torture, of twisted dogmas and brainwashing, of a poor child who only craved the pureness of a mother’s love and would do anything to gain it.They had taken all of that, and used it to break Walter’s mind, to force him into doing their bidding. While Walter might have been the terror that lurked in the narrow hallways and misty woods, the real monster of this whole ordeal was the cult of Silent Hill."Or, Henry Townshend laments over a broken man.
Relationships: Walter Sullivan/Henry Townshend
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Man, oh man. I recently got back into Silent Hill again, and SH4 really dragged me kicking and screaming back into the depths. I was instantly reminded of the tragedy that is Walter Sullivan's character, and of course, I used Henry as a medium to express how badly I felt for him. 
> 
> That, and I think it's just too easy for _Henry_ to feel bad for him. You spend the entire game finding out about all the sick and twisted shit Walter had to go through, and then at the end they just hand you a gun and say, "Alright, have fun killing him!" Like damn Team Silent, why you gotta mess with our emotions like that... 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this angst fest.

_ What if this whole crusade's a charade _ _  
_ _ And behind it all there's a price to be paid _ _  
_ _ For the blood on which we dine _ _  
_ _ Justified in the name of the holy and the divine _

_ Just how deep do you believe? _ _  
_ _ Will you bite the hand that feeds? _ _  
_ _ Will you chew until it bleeds? _ _  
_ _ Can you get up off your knees? _ _  
_ _ Are you brave enough to see? _ _  
_ _ Do you wanna change it? _

**_Nine Inch Nails - The Hand That Feeds_ **

He awakes to the familiar spinning of the fan overhead, though the air is anything but pleasant. It’s thick and stifled and almost suffocating, like the oxygen was being sucked out of the apartment. Henry’s temple begins to pound as his eyes adjust, and his hand lazily trails up to rub at the offending spot. The headache seems to snake its way into the depths of his head, where it then begins to torment him even further. 

He rises from his lying position on the bed, feeling all the wounds of his previous travels plaguing him. His arms hurt from swinging his weapon, his biceps protesting pitifully with each movement. He’s certain there’s a basketball-sized bruise lining his ribs, an unfortunate result of what happens when a steel pipe collides with human flesh and bone. 

Henry shudders at the memory of the attack, adrenaline having made everything blurry and unfocused during the moment. But that laugh… he’ll always recognize that laugh. It’ll haunt his dreams forever if he ever makes it out of this nightmare alive. That laugh was death incarnate, and Henry failed to comprehend how someone could laugh so mirthfully while in the middle of the act of killing. 

Walter… He’d finally met him. What had first appeared to be another lost soul in the twisted Otherworld turned out to be the man pulling the strings behind it, making it manifest in horrific ways. Henry had even made the mistake of accepting the offered gift of the shabby doll, had placed it carefully inside his trunk, none the wiser to the corrupt energy it possessed. 

He’d nearly fainted when he saw all the mangled faces of the infants protruding from his apartment wall. Never had he ever worked so quickly to banish a haunting before. 

That man - if he could even be called that - was a perfect storm of ambition and madness. Walter was relentless with his attacks, seemed to never tire, to never grow bored with his constant hunts. Henry was left looking over his shoulder more often than not, ushering Eileen forward as quickly as he could, considering her grievous injuries. Each time, he would catch a sliver of the other man, pipe in one hand, pistol in the other. Always rising at the opportunity to take aim at Henry, always echoing that insane laughter of his. 

It was such a contrast to their first meeting. Walter had seemed so calm, serene. Polite, even. Henry, for those few fleeting moments, actually found listening to him to be quite relaxing. He had a smooth, baritone voice, one that could lull anyone into a false state of peace. Henry had momentarily gotten lost in its cadence, and was transfixed by the mysterious man he’d seen knocking on Eileen’s apartment door just moments earlier. 

It had horrified him when he’d found Eileen beaten and bloodied later on, no less at the hands of the man sitting on the stairs. He could hardly believe that someone so mild could commit such a devastating crime. Yet, here they were, the last two victims of his crazed killing spree.

Barely alive, barely hanging on. Traversing a multitude of worlds that threatened to steal the life out of them if Walter didn’t do it first. 

It should have been cut and dry. Walter was evil, that much was true. But throughout his travels, Henry had been witness to so many spine chilling accounts of abuse; abuse that was directed at his potential killer, abuse that absolutely no one should have the displeasure of going through. Tales of beatings and torture, of twisted dogmas and brainwashing, of a poor child who only craved the pureness of a mother’s love and would do anything to gain it. 

They had taken all of that, and used it to break Walter’s mind, to force him into doing their bidding. While Walter might have been the terror that lurked in the narrow hallways and misty woods, the real monster of this whole ordeal was the cult of Silent Hill. 

Henry couldn’t help it. Sympathy seeped deep into his bones, made him ache and hurt for the lost soul that was Walter Sullivan. Even if the man had swiped and shot and beat at him, Henry couldn’t suppress the raw well of pity he possessed for the other. There were times, when he’d awake in his room, safe from all the monsters of the Otherworld, only to find himself lost in his thoughts. Always wondering, always wishing there was another way. 

Just like now. His thoughts were getting away from him again, trailing back to the visage of a weathered and bloodied blond man, whose heart was blacker than the darkest of nights. Henry should have hated him, despised him, curled away in disgust at the very thought of him. Yet, here he was again, hurting for a person who probably couldn’t return the sentiment, much less understand how Henry felt. 

To him, Henry was just another piece of the puzzle. The final piece, in fact. The last barrier between him and his mother. 

It made the brunet want to sob, to curl into himself and cry all his frustrations out. He was torn; torn between wanting to live, wanting to protect the only friend he’d ever made in this apartment complex, wanting to prevent what would undoubtedly bring to life a monster beyond their wildest dreams, and wanting to solve the mystery that was Walter’s mangled psyche, to soothe it and fix it and show the man that there was more to life than chasing a mother’s love. 

Like friends. Everyone could use a friend. Especially Walter. He could have done more if he’d had decent friends, could have been something else entirely if there’d been someone outside of the cult’s influence to steer him away from their madness. 

Henry wishes it could have been him. He wishes he could go back in time, reverse all the damage that’d been done to Walter over the years. But time was set in stone, and Henry was now at the mercy of Walter’s terrible, mangled subconscious. 

He can’t lay and cry forever. He can’t cry at all. He forces the tears back, fights tooth and nail not to let a single one fall. He shouldn’t cry, not for him, not for Walter. He tells himself that, repeats it like a mantra inside his mind, but it only makes the sting worse. Walter deserves sympathy, even if his actions suggest otherwise. Sympathy could have… might be the key to unraveling all of this madness. 

Henry isn’t sure, though, if such a thing even matters to Walter. His feelings, his wishes, his heart… it matters not to the man who hunts him. It matters not to the heart of a killer who’s only notion of love is that of a child for its mother. 

All thoughts of Walter are pushed aside, and Henry rises to deal with the most recent haunting. He knows there must be a new one, for his head hasn’t stopped aching since he woke. He stands from his bed, and plans to make his way to the trunk where a few holy candles are put away, but stops cold in his tracks once he spies the picture frame sitting on his table. 

The once pristine image of the Balkan Church is now replaced with a decaying, haunting image of his potential killer, his vivid green eyes transfixed on Henry, as if he’s actually peering into the room at the brunet.

Henry swallows thickly, uneasily, and takes a cautionary step backwards, half expecting Walter to somehow manifest and finish the job. He wouldn’t be surprised, not really. The state of the apartment was growing worse. What had once been a sanctuary is starting to pose just as much of a risk as the Otherworld does. He knows Walter can’t enter, not until the Sacraments are done, but still…

The picture only serves to throw Henry back into his thoughts, and once more, he’s left distressing over Walter, wondering how on earth he can escape this hell he’s in without snuffing out the other’s life. If only they could both escape, both get what they want without hurting anyone else in the crossfire… if only, Henry wishes desperately. 

If only. 

He decides to leave the picture unattended, forgoing the process of letting the holy candle burn away its draining influence. Walter’s presence is everywhere, and Henry decides that getting rid of his twisted expression is the least of his worries.

* * *

The shots rings out before Eileen can notice. 

Henry does the only thing he can think of. 

He shoves her out of the way and takes the bullet straight to his shoulder. 

Immediately, a hoarse cry is ripping its way from his throat. Eileen yelps as she lands on the floor, her bad arm catching a bit of the impact. Well… at least the possibility of anything  _ else _ being broken is eliminated. It’s a funny thought to have, as Henry’s crashing to the ground himself. 

He lands mostly on his side, but his head snaps back a bit and smacks straight into the rusty grate below. For a moment, the pain blossoming in his right arm is overshadowed by the disorientation that Henry feels from the crash. His eyes blink slowly, half-lidded, as he stares up at the fleshy ceiling of the apartment they’re currently in. 

Eileen’s ragged breaths have turned into quick paced sobs as she crawls over to him, shielded by the corner of a room’s wall from Walter’s gunfire. A straight drop to the depths below is the only thing that separates them from the relentless ghost. 

“Henry, Henry…! Henry!” She chokes out, shaking him against her better judgement and causing the pain in his arm to flare up in complete agony. Henry hisses, the sound melting into a groan as he clutches at the bloodied wound, feeling the slippery and slick texture of blood pouring between his fingers. 

Henry’s eyes cock to the right, away from Eileen’s panicked stare, and to the figure across the gap that slowly begins to leave the opposite apartment. Adrenaline flares within Henry, his eyes shooting wide, his fingers detaching themselves from his bicep to grab roughly at Eileen’s good arm. 

“Eileen! Go!” 

“Wh- no… no! I’m not leaving you!” 

Henry’s teeth gnash together momentarily, before he’s growling out impatiently, “No, get out of here! He’s after you!”

Footsteps sound from behind the mottled door to the apartment they’re in. Both sets of green eyes flash up to spy the door, fear paralyzing them momentarily. Henry is the first to break from his daze, brows draw downward as he gives Eileen a small push away from him. 

“Please, Eileen, go!” 

He sees her violet lips thin into a terse line, before she’s wobbling to her feet and turning on her heel, hobbling for the bent bars ahead that would allow her into the next apartment. Henry breathes a sigh of relief, righting himself against the wall as he sits on the floor, holding his injured arm once more. The uncomfortable feeling of something hot pressing against muscle tissue makes him swallow thickly, trying to keep the nausea at bay lest he vomit right in front of Walter. 

Letting go proves to be easier this time, as he reaches with a bloodied hand for the pistol on his side. He manages to press the release on the case, and watches as it falls to his lap, its open end showing a complete lack of bullets. His head tilts back, rests against the wall as his eyes close, and a feeling of complete hopelessness settles in his stomach like a heavy stone. 

He didn’t know if Walter could kill out of order. But he did know that the man could still beat him senseless, weakening him for the future when the death blow would finally come. It was what he’d done to Eileen, even if he’d had no plans of stopping the first time.

Henry tries not to hyperventilate as he imagines that cold pipe colliding with him over and over again, curled up in a ball and completely defenseless to the whims of the sadistic man above. His breaths come quicker, his heart beginning to pound furiously inside his chest. He can barely hear himself think over the deafening thumps. 

A bullet to the head would be preferable. 

Too bad Walter didn’t seem to care for quick or clean deaths. 

The door opens, slowly, ominously. Its creaks are the only thing that fills the silent room. That, and Henry’s erratic breaths. He sees a booted foot step through, followed by the swishing end of a dark blue coat. 

This is it, then. Henry would have the displeasure of experiencing what Eileen had gone through. The images of her bloodied and beaten, covered in lacerations, and sporting a mangled arm pass through Henry’s head. He feels his blood run cold. 

Walter enters the room slowly, with purpose. Henry’s fingers clench, curl into blood-slicked fists at his side as he waits for the ghost to take notice of him. For a moment, he almost turns his gaze away, over to the bars where Eileen had slipped into the adjoining apartment, but he catches himself, knowing it would be foolish to let Walter know where his worries lie. 

A low chuckle shatters the silence, and Henry finds himself unable to keep his eyes away. They flit towards the man covered in his various victims’ blood, green hues blown wide, conveying the most primal of fears. 

Fear of death. Fear of pain. Fear of torture. 

All things Walter had experienced and then some. 

Slow, measured footsteps sound against the rusty grate, and they approach from the door, until those boots are stopping in front of Henry, and a large, looming shadow is cast over him. Henry can’t keep the petrified expression off of his face, and his muscles burn with the urge to run, to flee, but he’s paralyzed beneath Walter’s gaze. Heterochromatic eyes stare down at him, lips pulled into the faintest of smiles as the killer regards him, gun gripped loosely between one of his hands. 

Henry feels like he could faint at any moment. His heart is thudding so hard in his chest that it’s rattling his ribs. He feels like he can’t get enough air. The room is spinning, spinning, but Walter remains perfectly still, within focus. A picture perfect constant unaffected by the chaos of the world around them. 

It was like the calm before the storm. Quiet, almost peaceful. Walter’s posture was nonthreatening, but the aura of his presence was absolutely menacing. It made Henry’s skin crawl. 

“Henry,” the smooth, baritone voice murmurs quietly, as if acknowledging a child. “How foolish of you. That was meant for Miss Galvin.”

He motions to Henry’s bloodied, throbbing arm, and just the motion alone has Henry flinching away. Walter doesn’t seem to care for the reaction, ignoring it entirely and canting his head slightly at the brunet. Observing him. 

“I suppose I will have to find her then. Stay put for now. I’ll be back later.”

He… was leaving him? Just like that? No beating, no torture, no gunshot or steel pipe? Henry’s lips part, his expression dumbfounded, before realization smacks him hard across the face. Eileen. Walter was going for Eileen. Henry couldn’t let him leave, couldn’t let Walter finish what he’d started. He couldn’t let him, couldn’t subject Eileen to another round of his ruthlessness.

On instinct, he’s reaching out, grabbing the beige material of Walter’s pants, hopefully stilling him for just a moment. The ghost was like an immovable object, Henry had discovered from their previous encounters. Walter had all the constitution of a brick wall. He could easily slip out of Henry’s grasp, break his arm, do any number of horrible things to the brunet that would see his hand be removed. 

He has no idea why he does it, but here he is, begging the other to stay, words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them. “N-No, wait. Please. Please… don’t…”

“Hm,” It’s a noise of recognition and nothing more. However, Walter does pause, directing his cold gaze down to Henry once again. A dark blonde brow raises questioningly. “You wish for me to stop?”

“Yes,” Henry rasps out, fingers tightening around the scuffed material of Walter’s clothing. “P-Please, stop. Don’t hurt her. She does- doesn’t deserve it.”

“Of course not.” Walter answers lightly, and it takes Henry completely off guard. He fumbles for a moment, before Walter tacks on darkly. “But it’s necessary to free her from the bonds of her corrupted flesh. It’ll be better for her, once I’ve completed the Sacraments. No more pain, no more sin. Pure, unaltered Paradise.”

Of course, Henry thought bitterly. Walter was so brainwashed by the cult’s twisted rhetoric that he genuinely thought he was doing Eileen a service. It did, however, make Henry wonder about himself, and if that thought process extended to him. He wondered if Walter held him in the same regard.

Or maybe he was just another number, necessary to complete the ritual. It would be fitting for him. An un-extraordinary means to an end for an un-extraordinary person such as himself. 

Eileen had, after all, been one of the few people to show Walter any semblance of kindness. Henry had only wallowed in silence over the other. There was no reason he could be special to the killer. He was just one last obstacle on the way to “salvation”. Not that it mattered if he was special or not. Walter would kill him either way. 

The man, the boy… they were just puppets, pieces used to fulfill a pipe dream harbored by an insane cult. Walter… he’d been manipulated his entire life, constantly beaten or brainwashed into doing the cult’s bidding. The man had no free will, no concept of what it was to be a normal person. Everything that most people took for granted, Walter never had the pleasure of experiencing. 

He was broken. Broken and cold and starved of love. 

“They’ve ruined you…” Henry mutters the words before he can stop himself. He feels his heart grow heavy in his chest, a sort of constricting pressure that threatens to steal the oxygen out of his lungs. The longer he stares at Walter, the more his fears seem to bleed into concern. It’s easier to think about how horribly abused and mangled the man was when he wasn’t immediately trying to bash Henry’s skull in or fill him with bullets. He almost seemed human. Almost.

“Do you honestly think so?” Walter asks softly, and for a moment, there almost seems to be clarity in his voice. Realization. Henry wants nothing more than to latch onto it, but then Walter is speaking again, that same blind devotion making itself known. “Henry… my eyes are open to the evils of this world. You are woefully blind to its cruelties. So naive, so innocent. Of course you would think so. The truth is painful.”

He begins to kneel down, and Henry sucks in a quick, shuddered breath. He presses himself as close as he can get to the wall at his back as Walter comes to be eye level with him. His eyes follow the way Walter’s hand totes the gun around, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when the blond taps him lightly on the shoulder with it. 

“You’ll see, though. When I’ve freed you and Miss Galvin from the bonds of your flesh, and Mother has cleansed everything, you’ll come to realize that this was all worth it.” 

“No,” Henry protests weakly, his voice barely there. “No, this is… this is madness. It’s wrong, it’s-“

“Hush, Henry.” Walter chides him gently. “Now, stay right here and wait for me. I’ll be back shortly.”

Walter makes a move to stand, to leave, but Henry is acting on pure adrenaline and desperation. He grasps at Walter’s wrist and tugs at him, trying to keep him put, at least for a little while longer. Maybe then, Eileen could get far enough away to hide somewhere. But this game Henry was playing, it was akin to playing with fire. At any point, Walter could grow tired of him, ignite, and set Henry’s whole world ablaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice trembling. It’s all the incentive he needs to let it all come tumbling out, and Henry can scarcely keep the tremble out of his voice. His eyes begin to burn against his will. “Everything that happened. You didn’t deserve it. Those people, the cult… that prison. G-God, I can’t-“

He chokes on his words, finding them to be lodged in his throat. Henry can feel his cheeks becoming damp, and he’s not sure if he’s crying out of desperation or heartbreak. Perhaps a little bit of both? 

Walter makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Henry actually sees his brows tug downwards. One of Walter’s hands splays against the wall beside Henry’s head, while the one that holds the gun rests loosely atop Henry’s shoulder. 

Henry’s breath hitches. He’s never been so close to the killer, not even during Walter’s previous attacks. He half expects the scent of blood and rust to rise from the other, but finds that Walter strangely smells like nothing at all. 

“This is why I chose you,” Walter murmurs quietly, eyes soft yet somehow still burning a hole through Henry. “I knew the twenty-first would have to be special. Henry, your compassion for others… it touches me. It truly does.” 

He falters for his words, choking on nothing but air. Henry gapes, lips moving just barely, pain momentarily forgotten in lieu of what Walter had just said. Something inside of him twinges, hard and painful, and it twists like a hot knife in Henry’s chest. It feels as if his heart is trying to break through his ribs. Or maybe it was just breaking in general. 

If only he could have used that compassion to save Walter, things would be different. If only he’d met the man before he started his vicious killing spree, perhaps he could have taught him what it was like to love and be loved. Maybe then, Henry wouldn’t be sitting here, boxed in by the killer and fighting back a fresh wave of tears.

God, he felt so much. So many years of repressing his feelings, of forgetting childhood blights and even bigger teenage tragedies. The memory of his mother holding the knife, drenched in his father’s blood. The imprints of the man’s fists on Henry’s face. The bruising of his mother’s skin as she sat and wept her sorrows away. So many things that should have eaten him up inside, and yet it was none of that. It was Walter Sullivan, and his tragedy of a life that had Henry silently weeping in front of the killer. It was the fact that he couldn’t save the man that tipped him over the edge.

Feeling so much, and yet powerless to do anything... It hit close to home, and Henry had to fight the tremble that threatened to shake his entire body. His eyes glaze over momentarily, and for a while, he’s lost in an ocean of numbness. It feels as though reality is dissolving right in front of him, and his slow breaths slowly begin to pick back up, flaring into a crescendo of soft gasps that have Walter’s face going a bit pale, much to Henry’s surprise. 

“Henry,” he hears his name being called firmly, and the bloodied fingers of his killer curl around his shoulders, a soft shake being given to the brunet as he slips further into his cocoon of shock. Henry shakes his head, just barely, a refusal to snap out of the state he’s suddenly found himself in.

It feels like he’s drowning, drowning, sinking further and further into the cold waters below. It steals his breath away, leaves him shivering and desperate for some kind of relief, but it all feels so far out of reach. Everything is broken beyond repair. Walter’s mind, Henry’s life, the world they both have found themselves in… there’s no escape. Just endless agony and pining for an exit that can’t come without first suffering. 

“Listen to me,” Walter commands him, and Henry finds cold and blood-slick hands cupping his face, the gun momentarily discarded on the grated floor. If it’d been anyone else touching him like this, Henry wouldn’t have responded. But such an act of tenderness from the man who’d made it a point to try and kill both him and Eileen is enough to snap Henry back, though his head feels thick and full of cotton. “Rest.”

There’s power behind that word, some sort of supernatural energy that seeps into the command, and suddenly Henry is fighting back sleep, his eyes drooping and his body going lax. It feels as if he’s being lowered into a pool of warm, inviting water, submerging all of his limbs and making him want to close his eyes and simply float. 

He fights it as best as he can, rational thought rushing back in the form of concern over Eileen. If he falls asleep here, there’s no telling what will happen. Walter could find her, finish what he’d started, and no one would be there to defend Eileen. Innocent, motherly Eileen…

Her name is a whisper on Henry’s lips as he sinks further into the abyss, being swallowed up by the reprieve that Walter is offering him. His eyes slip closed, and Henry becomes dead to the hellish nightmare around him. 

He awakes in his bed in the apartment, and stares blankly up at the ceiling fan, feeling raw and empty inside.

* * *

The ghost of Joseph had made it clear what Henry had to do in order to end the madness. The only problem was bringing himself to complete his given duty. Easier said than done, especially when he was harboring an unhealthy amount of pity for the man he was supposed to kill. Honestly, it was ridiculous. Walter had given him plenty of reason to hate him, and yet… 

He just couldn’t find it in his heart to do it. So many details of the man’s childhood had been burned into Henry’s mind. It haunted him, when he was alone with his thoughts. It made every interaction with Walter’s younger self even more painful, because the knowledge of what the young boy had been through made Henry want to scoop him up and protect him from every evil force that threatened to taint his innocent mind. 

Eventually, he fights back the fear that bubbles up from his stomach into his throat and exits his apartment. He finds Eileen back in the Apartment World, blessedly safe and hiding in one of the various rooms. She wastes no time in throwing her good arm around him, jostling his shoddily bandaged arm. Henry doesn’t care, however. He’s only relieved to see her safe. Alive. 

Not well, but alive. 

“I thought you were dead!” Eileen whispers harshly, before pulling back to level Henry with the most parental glare he’s ever received. “You… you altruistic idiot! You could have died! But… how… how did you survive? He was right there…”

He fixes her with a sheepish look, the barest hint of a smile spreading across his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I’m here now.”

Eileen looks as though she wants to press the issue, but she sighs, weary and forlorn, and averts her bright gaze elsewhere. Henry immediately frowns at the sight of her; bloodied, beaten, and growing more fatigued as the hours or perhaps days dragged on. As the two of them begin traversing the apartments again, he can’t help but notice that her limp is getting worse, that her breathing is becoming more ragged, and her endurance seems to be slipping away. 

He knows she’s getting worse. The Eileen of the real world was still in the hospital, fighting for her life. Each second that Henry dawdled when it came to Walter subsequently hurt Eileen. The poor woman was barely hanging on as things were. He would have to finish this quickly if he planned on saving her at all. 

He refused to let anyone else die. He’d seen too many souls be eaten up by this hellish nightmarescape. 

Eileen deserved better. 

...Walter deserved better. 

They all deserved so much more than the plate they’d been served, and yet, here they all were. Every single one of them victims in one way or another. 

Finding the keys to the locks on the Super’s apartment is akin to shoving toothpicks beneath his nails. The monsters here seem to fight with renewed vigor, are hungrier for blood and flesh than their previous counterparts. Perhaps it was Walter’s subconscious unravelling, his fears worsening as the end drew near, as his madness spun and spun and spun and orbited out of control. 

Speaking of which, there’s not much of his presence here anymore. Henry swears he’ll catch a glimpse of a bloody coat or blond hair out of the corner of his eye, but then he’s turning and no one is there. Walter stalks around them, much like the ghosts that refuse to give up their pursuit of Henry and Eileen. Yet, he seems more content to let the two of them escape time and time again, patiently biding his time, waiting for something… something…

It becomes clear what he’s waiting for when Henry hears a pained yelp, and turns to find Eileen sprawled on the rusty grate below. He immediately rushes to her side and bends down to cradle her against his lap. She gasps sharply, eyes screwing shut and breaths coming in short, ragged puffs of air. A weak, garbled noise spills from her lips, and she blinks her good eye open slowly, blearily, spying Henry above and trying to comfort him with the most pathetic of smiles. 

“I’m okay…” 

“No, you’re not.” Henry chides her gently, pushing strands of sweat-slick hair out of her good eye. “Eileen…”

“I just… need to rest. That’s all. Just… give me a moment.” Her words are becoming slurred, slow. She weakly raises her hand to splay it across Henry’s cheek, a comforting gesture that is more empty than anything. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be- to be okay.” 

Henry wants to shake his head, to object and demand that she recognize what’s happening. She was dying. He could see the brightness in her eyes dimming by the hour, could hear the weakness in her voice. This was, by far however, the worst he’d seen her yet. Part of him wants to yell in frustration, to beg her to revitalize and hold on just a little bit longer. Just give him enough time to figure things out, to find a way to end this all without  _ anyone _ else dying. 

It was a futile thought, he realized. This nightmare had been borne of violence and it would inevitably end in violence as well. 

He slips his arms beneath her, and shakily rises to his feet with her cradled in them. Eileen whimpers softly, her head coming to rest against Henry’s shoulder as she limply leaned against him. “I’m sorry.” She croaks, and he can feel something damp falling onto the material of his shirt. She was crying. 

Henry’s heart twinged. It twisted in ways that made him want to sob and hold her and demand that things will be alright. He wanted to see her well again, free of blood and broken bones and peaceful inside her apartment. He wants her to be blissfully unaware of the terrors of Silent Hill and its demented cult. He wants her to live, and yet, it seemed like all of that was slipping away, like water running between his fingers.

He decides to take her back to Room 302. At least now, she could follow him inside, for the apartment was halfway sucked into Walter’s world. Eileen is deposited on the couch, purposefully away from the haunting inside Henry’s room that he’d still yet to cleanse. He places a holy candle before her and lights it, letting it burn away any possible corruption inside the apartment, its flame offering momentary protection for the woman who barely clung unto life. 

She seems to slip into sleep immediately, chest rising and falling slowly, ominously. Henry stares down at her, feeling his eyes burn with tears. He feels them slip sluggishly down his face, dripping onto the floor below, though he stays absolutely silent, refuses to let the first noise of anguish leave his throat.

Room 302’s door closes behind him, and he sets about on finding the final piece that would finally put an end to this sadistic story.

* * *

The box smells horrendous, and it feels like sacrilege holding it in his hands. It burns his skin with its latent power, thrumming with an unknown force that makes Henry’s flesh vibrate. 

He knows he shouldn’t open it, should save it for when the time came to use it against Walter, but something drives him to do it, and his fingers are opening the lid before he can stop himself. 

Immediately, it’s like a white hot branding iron being pressed inside his skull, and Henry wails, falling to his knees as images of a lost childhood assault his mind. A sense of loneliness so unbelievably potent fills him up, and it leaves him choking and gasping for air, feeling as if his heart was going to explode. A yearning so strong, so empathetically tangible courses through him. 

The warm arms of a mother. The feeling of being loved. Of being protected. Simple phrases that most children took for granted, being played like an old record in his ears. Finally, the sight of her leaving, the coldness of the room, devoid of human life and any semblance of love. Years and years of beatings, of emotional abuse and implemented fear, of staring up at the shadows as they crossed over the peep hole, the musty smell of water and rust and death, the scalding glares of strangers as a child searched for his long lost mother, the immeasurable disappointment when she never answered him. 

Henry almost gags from the intensity of it all, coughing and sputtering and sobbing again as tears slip down his cheeks. It’s enough to drive a man mad, he thinks, feeling all of this so intensely, being consumed by its grievous message. Was this what Walter felt all the time? Was this why he fought so viciously, so determinedly? All in the name of a mother’s love, of knowing what it felt like to be cherished and taken care of... To never again fear the things that haunted him as a child. 

He wanted to wail, to scream, to call for Walter and reassure him that he’d never have to feel any of those things again if he just stopped and let Henry help him. His fingers curl into fists so tight that the tendons stick out stark white, and Henry beats once against the metal grate, twice, three times, before his hand is aching too badly and his knuckles are scuffed and bloody. 

He can’t believe how cruel the world is, how dismissive it was of a young boy’s suffering. How could any merciful God let such an atrocity happen? How could any divine being stand by and let Walter Sullivan ache like he had? In the eyes of the cult, the hatred borne from the man’s pain was necessary to birth their mangled version of God. However, all Henry could see was another victim of circumstance, another lost soul condemned to an existence of repeated violence and loss. 

It was all Walter felt, and now Henry could feel it too.

* * *

He finds her in the same spot whenever he returns to the apartment, but Henry immediately knows that something terrible has happened as soon as he walks in. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room, and anxiety creeps up inside of him the moment he walks through the door holding the box. Eileen remains on the couch, but her chest does not rise. She does not stir in her sleep, and her body seems too limp, too pale. 

Henry immediately drops to his knees, the box tumbling out of hand. He crawls towards her, hoping it to be an illusion, a trick of the mind, or his paranoia acting up, but no… Eileen does not respond when he calls her name. She lies there, still and devoid of warmth, silent during a moment in which Henry would give anything to hear her motherly voice. 

He reaches for her hand and cradles it between his own two, pressing it to his cheek as he takes in the lifeless feel of her skin. He wants to hear her reassure him, he wants her to tell him that everything is going to be alright, even if it is a blatant lie. Anything would be preferable to this, he thinks, as pain blossoms inside his heart and he finds himself crying  _ yet again _ , the tears struggling to fall this time around. He’d given up so many of them lately that his eyes just don’t want to produce any more. 

Henry silently weeps as he mourns the loss of his only friend. The radio crackles to life, perhaps mockingly, as the news from the outside world delivers the report. “And finally, our last topic of the night. A female victim, presumed to be linked to the Walter Sullivan case, has passed away from her injuries at St. Jerome’s Hospital this evening. Doctors say they did everything they could for her, but her injuries were too extensive-”

Outside the apartment door, he can faintly hear beneath the static of the radio; a child calls for their mother, desperate and pleading.

* * *

He’d descended down, down, down. Far into the depths of his warped world, of his aberrant mind. Henry can feel the box thrumming ominously in his pocket, his hands slick as they grip the powerful revolver that once belonged to Richard Braintree. 

Nearby, the thrum of some sort of demented death machine whirs, a pool of blood sloshing and splashing as it carved its way through it. His eyes drift everywhere, from the spears protruding from the corpse-like figures embedded in the wall, to the monstrosity that groans and twitches and tries desperately to escape the prison of flesh it's in. 

A symbol of Walter’s suffering, of his detachment from humanity. 

And there, across the way, stands the man in question, his gun gripped tightly in his bloody hand, his expression bordering between happy, relieved, and something along the lines of commiseration. He seems to soften once he sees Henry, his lips spreading into a gentle smile as he regards the other. 

“Henry,” His name is spoken almost reverently. “This is it. Are you ready?”

Henry nods slowly, shakily, feeling the weakest he’d ever felt since finding himself inside this nightmare. He feels about two feet tall standing here before Walter, carrying the item that would snuff the other man out for good. It feels wrong, so fucking wrong to be doing this, but Henry knows he can’t back down now. He’d come too far, survived too many horrors, too many close brushes with death.

Yet… he was tired. So, so tired and ready to be done with it, whether it be by his hand or Walter’s. Either way, Henry would accept the end, no matter what it was. So long as there  _ was _ an end, a reprieve from all of this insanity. Surviving, escaping… it almost didn’t seem worth it anymore. Eileen was dead, along with so many others, and Henry’s whole world had been uprooted within a matter of days.

Could he ever call his life normal again? 

There’s no time to think. Walter seems just as eager for the end as Henry is. He raises his pistol to fire at the brunet, and Henry barely has time to dodge out of the way. He can feel the heat from the bullet grazing his skin, making him tremble with fear as he runs desperately towards the monstrosity protruding from the wall. 

The item inside the box seems to react to being so close to the source of Walter’s power. It silently sings, and Henry can feel the latent energy spewing from it. He clumsily fishes for the box inside his pocket, and produces it, his sweaty and aching fingers opening the lid to reveal the mottled flesh inside. 

From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Walter, and for once the man’s face isn’t drawn into a sadistic smile. There’s horror written on his features, as if he recognizes what Henry is carrying. It’s just enough of a distraction for Henry to toss the flesh into the beast.

A scream erupts in the room, deafening to the point of pain. Henry’s ears ring, and he swears he can feel something trickling sluggishly out of one of them. He wipes at his neck and finds blood marring his fingers.

The bodies holding the spears begin to glow red, the items stabbed into them seemingly calling for Henry. He’d learned of this from Joseph, the Eight Spears of the Holy Mother. They were the items that would render Walter weak… mortal. The playing field would be evened out if Henry could retrieve and use them. 

Walter, on the other hand, seems to have no intentions of letting him do so. The man surges forward with an anger Henry has yet to see, and it’s terrifying to see his face contorted in such a manner. His teeth snap together and bare, and Henry has to swallow past the nervous lump in his throat. He thinks it might be his heart. 

“Henry....!” It’s a growl unlike the smooth, baritone timbre he’s used to, and it makes a chill run down his spine. He knows there won’t be any forgiveness for this, and a part of Henry stings remorsefully. 

If he wants to have any chance at making this work, he’ll have to fight back. Henry raises the revolver and takes aim at Walter, though his hands are trembling so much that he’s not sure he can land a shot. If that wasn’t enough to stop him, then the well of pity overflowing inside of him is. He hesitates, his finger pulled back slightly on the trigger, yet not enough to fire off a bullet. 

Walter moves like a shadow, showing off an aggression and type of power Henry has yet to see. He surges forward, gliding across the floor with frightening speed, his hand lashing out to knock Henry off of his feet. The blow feels akin to being hit with a piece of rebar, and Henry goes tumbling, spinning, crashing into the floor below. The gun stays mercifully gripped in his hand, but the impact makes him see stars. His head pounds, and he can feel something warm and sticky dripping down his temple.

He barely manages to glance up in time to see Walter aiming his pistol at him once more. Henry rolls away, adrenaline fueling him, as the shot goes off and ricochets off of the floor below. Richard’s revolver feels like pure heat in his hand, and panic is the catalyst that makes Henry fire back once he’s righted himself. 

The power from the shot makes his wrist hurt, the recoil from the revolver proving to be more than he’d expected. But the bullet makes its mark, and for a moment, Henry is torn between relief and horror. 

Walter stumbles back, his balance faltering from the powerful blow, and dark blood oozes from the entry in the center of his head. His fingers rise to touch upon the bullet wound, but his legs wobble and give out, seeing him fall backwards until his back collides with the bloodstained ground. 

Henry can’t afford to feel sorry for him right now, can’t gawk and ask himself why he would do such a thing. Instead, he scrambles to his feet and rushes for the first spear. 

Four of the eight are gathered in the time it takes Walter to recover from the bullet. Each one that is stabbed into the writhing creature produces a scream that sends Henry’s heart hammering inside of his chest and his blood running cold. The realization that he’s slowly killing Walter looms like a hangman’s noose, a baleful feeling that does nothing to inspire Henry. 

The man revives with a vengeance however, and Henry hears a growl of frustration as a shot rings out. Pain blooms within his left thigh, and Henry almost crumples to the ground from the sensation. The tell-tale feeling of a hot piece of lead melding into his flesh makes him cry out. “You will stop!” 

He can’t, however. Not now, not after… after everything he’d been through! Then what would his pain mean? Eileen’s pain? Her death?  _ Their _ deaths? It had to end now, Henry thought bitterly, forcing the pain down into low whimpers. He gathers himself as best as he can and limps quickly to the next spear. 

Walter is there in an instant, however, and his hand shoots out, grasps Henry by the head of his hair, and it yanks back hard. Pain explodes across the brunet’s scalp as he’s tugged backwards, just enough for Walter to level him with a dark and foreboding expression. 

“Why must you resist, Henry?” He grounds out tersely. Desperation lines Walter’s voice, and it's a far cry from his measured, confident tones. Henry understands, however. He knows why Walter sounds so desperate. It’s because the man  _ is  _ desperate, so close to achieving his goal, and yet here was a pathetic mortal getting in the way of his salvation. “Don’t you see? I’m doing what’s best for you!” 

He’s tossed to the ground like a piece of trash, and the collision knocks the air from his lungs. Walter looms overhead, exotic eyes staring down at his last victim with what appears to be disappointment. It shouldn’t make Henry shrink the way he does, but he can feel his heart shriveling up at the expression. 

The gun is lowered at Henry, and Walter’s expression suddenly turns cold, devoid of emotion. The lack of care in it makes Henry draw in a quivering breath. 

He would not die here. Not like this.

Henry kicks at the other’s knee, and surprisingly, it’s enough of a distraction for him to scramble into a sitting position. Walter falters for a moment, his aim dropping, and it’s enough motivation for Henry to plant the next revolver bullet in him. 

It finds its mark in Walter’s chest, specifically where his heart should be, and the killer’s eyes widen in shock before he’s falling to his knees, and then onto the floor below. He lands beside Henry, curled into himself somewhat. The Receiver of Wisdom berates himself for wanting to check on the other, fighting back the foolish notion in favor of painfully pushing himself up to his feet, fighting the burning in his left thigh. 

It was now or never. 

Somehow, he hobbles faster than he’d ran before, and carries the spears two at a time. One, two, three, and then finally, the fourth and last one. Henry plunges the first three into Walter’s true form, and it screams and writhes and trembles from the pain. The room shakes, and Henry feels his balance being tested by the tremoring floor. He raises the last spear, intent on ending the suffering of this demented story, but feels something catch his wrist in an iron grip. 

He turns his head, and there Walter is again, revived once more and breathing raggedly. Henry freezes, feels his blood turn to ice as the two regard each other in a moment of unexpected peace. Then that hand is sliding up his own, around the length of the last spear, and the item is being yanked out of his grip. 

Walter slings it with monstrous force across the room, and it clatters and slides right into the whirling death machine below. Destroyed and lost. 

Henry feels as though he could collapse right then and there. He does, pitifully so, and Walter lets him fall at his feet, defeated. 

It was over. 

Not by Henry’s hand, but his killer’s. 

Either way, the end was nigh, and Henry was relieved to know that it would all be over soon. 

He’d suffered long enough. 

They both had. 

He feels the cold end of Walter’s gun being pressed to his forehead, and manages to gather enough courage to stare up at the blond man with sad and tired eyes. They hold each other’s gaze, a silent understanding beginning to bloom between them, and the rage in Walter’s eyes seems to dissipate. Now, there was only silent condemnation. 

Henry’s gaze lowers, and he nods mutely, his lashes catching the first few droplets of tears. He’s so scared, so frightened of what death means and feels like, but there’s no way he can fight back now. His only salvation has been destroyed, but deeper than that, his heart is breaking all over again, making his body wrack with suppressed sobs that he can’t contain. 

His fingers curl into the material of his pants, his eyes screwing shut as hot tears slip down his bloodied cheeks. He awaits death like a leaf trembling in the wind, and nearly begs the other man to please make it quick. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, not after failing so much, failing everyone he’d ever come across in this grim journey, but he selfishly hopes for it. 

This is what he deserves for failing Eileen. 

This is what he deserves for failing Walter. 

“Stand up.”

The command is spoken gruffly, and Henry is taken aback by the sound of Walter’s voice. His eyes open, red and bright from tears, to spy the other man, and he finds that Walter’s expression is contorted into something melancholic. His brows are drawn downwards, and there’s a quirk to his lips that suggest he’s thinking about something hard. 

Henry obeys him, and shakily brings himself to his feet, with some added help from Walter, whose hand reaches out to grasp the brunet by his good arm. Henry fights to silence the noises of pain that threaten to spill out of him, and only succeeds in whittling them down into small whines. 

As soon as he’s found his balance on his feet, he feels the other’s arm curling around him, pulling him forward so that the two of them are forced to catch each other’s gaze. The close proximity stuns Henry, leaves him gaping silently, though Walter seems to think nothing of the shared space between them. 

Henry feels a hand splay across the small of his back, and he bears his weight against it, feeling relief at not having to rest most of it on his bad leg. It suddenly hits him how exhausted he actually feels, and his eyes droop, his view of the dark room going blurry at the edges. Perhaps it was simply the fatigue of his journey catching up to him. Perhaps it was blood loss. Perhaps it was him finally giving in, and inviting his end with open arms. It could have been all three at once. 

Either way, he suddenly felt content. No matter what happens, he’d already made his peace with it. 

He’s pulled into an embrace that steals the oxygen out of his lungs. Henry gasps softly, half-lidded eyes going wide as Walter curls his arms around him, and he can feel the other burying his nose into his shoulder. It feels as though Walter has passed right through him, leaving him open and raw and vulnerable. 

And Henry can’t help it. He begins to weep again, and he returns the gesture, hugging his killer and letting the emotion pour out of him. He wonders if Walter has ever been hugged before, and the thought is such a sad one that it inspires profound grief within him. It consumes him from the inside out, making him shake within the other’s hold as he silently prays for Walter’s happiness. It was clear he was going to die, that Walter was going to win. Henry only hoped that the Sacraments were worth it. 

An arm slips away from him, and he feels something cold press against his abdomen. Walter’s voice is surprisingly soft and vulnerable. “Thank you…” 

The shot rings out. Heat spreads through Henry’s stomach and up his back, before an intense wave of pain sees him spitting up a mouthful of blood, his voice catching and coming out garbled as it blocks his airways. He falls further into Walter’s embrace, losing all sense of balance as the agony overtakes him, leaving him paralyzed in the other’s hold. 

His killer lowers him gently to the floor, and Henry grasps weakly, blindly at the material of Walter’s coat, a dying wish for the other to stay close to him as he passes. But of course, he’d almost forgotten one of the most glaring details of Walter’s ritualistic killings. The man retrieves a knife from his pocket and flips the blade open, his fingers grazing over the top buttons of Henry’s shirt, before yanking the material to the side and sending the buttons scattering across the floor. 

The pain of the blade tearing into his skin is nothing compared to the bullet wound in his stomach, but it hurts nonetheless and Henry winces as each number is carved into his skin, marking him as the final victim of the Sacraments. Walter quietly murmurs the numbers aloud as he works, and Henry finds a disturbing sense of peace at hearing his voice again. “Twenty-one out of twenty-one.” 

His killer traces the bloodied numbers with his index finger, the sensation making the burn flare even hotter on his chest. Henry feels as though he’s not getting enough oxygen, the air coming in small and fleeting pockets. He can feel himself dying, slowly, the light fading from both the room and his eyes. Blood pools on the floor beneath him, drenching his clothing in its warm and thick texture. 

Henry’s eyes flutter, fighting back futilely against the darkness beckoning him forward, but it’s all for naught. They finally close, and the world around him dissolves into a pit of nothingness. 

Somewhere distant, yet close by, the sound of a door unlocking can be heard.

* * *

A child beats against the door with small hands, begging over and over for his mother to answer. When it seems as though she never will, it suddenly swings open, slowly and invitingly. 

Little Walter gasps softly, and stares at the inside of the apartment. Its walls are pristine and clean, the air is fresh and devoid of blood and rust, and there, sitting on the sofa, is a woman. Her skin is unmarred, both of her eyes open and gazing at him, green and warm and containing all the love Little Walter has ever craved. 

Her arms open, a sign of an embrace, and he rushes forward, little feet carrying him forward impatiently as he enters the room and closes the distance. The child falls right into her awaiting arms, and the surge of emotion that floods him as she closes them around him makes a grin split his face. 

He nuzzles against her bosom, letting the warmth of her skin chase away all the cold he’s ever felt and melts against her, feeling cherished, safe, and for once, wanted. 

“Mom, I knew you were here.” 

Eileen Galvin tips her head forward, rests her chin atop Little Walter’s head, and begins to stroke his short hair soothingly. “I’ll always be here for you.”

* * *

Vision fills his senses, the slow turning of the ceiling fan above reminding Henry of where he’s at. For a moment, he feels a primal fear course through him, and he thinks he’s back there once again, right in the middle of the nightmare that had plagued him for days on end. Henry startles, and he tries to rise, but he can’t find the strength to do so. He only makes it a few inches off of the bed before something inside of him tells him he can’t go any further. 

He aches, all over, but the pain is nothing compared to what he’d felt previously, just a faint echo of what it’d been. Henry collapses back onto his bed, and huffs out a breath of relief, thankful to not be in agonizing misery anymore, but confused as to what was happening. He should be dead, he should be in heaven or perhaps even hell, but there’s nothing but the clean walls of his bedroom greeting him. 

Clean walls… last he’d checked, his apartment had been slowly degrading, turning into a blood and rust filled prison. This wasn’t right, or rather, it wasn’t what he’d grown accustomed to. 

He feels something warm brush against his hand, something akin to a puff of breath, and turns his gaze to the side. What he sees wrings a gentle noise of surprise out of him, and by all means should have frightened him, but the fear he’d once felt melts in place of something similar to contentment. 

Walter rests by his bedside, kneeled by the edge, though his arms are crossed and his head is resting on top of them. He sleeps peacefully, back rising with each breath, and body completely devoid of all the hard lines of a killer. The blood that had once covered his face, hair, and clothing is gone now, his skin clean and smooth, the splitting image of a normal man now. 

Henry’s hand reaches out, grasps softly at the other’s forearm, which in turn startles him from his sleep. Walter’s eyes open, blink slowly and innocently, before he’s turning them on Henry. Their depths are full of nothing but admiration, and the attention directed at the brunet has a slight blush blooming across his face. 

“Is it…” Henry tests his voice, and though it sounds hoarse and rugged, it’s still there. “Are things finally over?” 

“No,” Walter answers quietly, eyes flitting down to the numbers that still shone red in Henry’s skin. Despite the presence of the wounds there, Henry finds that he feels no pain. “This is only the beginning.”

Henry blinks dumbfoundedly at him, wondering what on earth there was left to be done for the Sacraments. He’d read the scriptures throughout his travels in Walter’s worlds, but he’d never heard of anything else past the last victim. Did the man honestly need to kill more? Had enough blood not been shed? 

Sensing the confusion in the other, and perhaps understanding where his erratic thoughts were taking him, Walter simply smiles and pats at Henry’s arm. “Life begins now.”

“Oh…” 

“Miss Galvin is in the other room.” He adds on, like a consolation for Henry’s brief moment of panic. 

“Eileen is here? She’s alive?” Henry’s voice remains hushed, but there’s an underlying sense of excitement to it. 

“We are all dead, Henry.” Walter answers simply. “But she is well, if you are wondering.” 

“We’re ghosts then?” Henry asks softly, letting the realization seep in. For some reason, the knowledge doesn’t shake him up as much as it should. Perhaps it was because he’d already resigned himself to his fate. However, he’d never expected  _ this _ of all things. 

Living in an altered reality with his killer, forever undying and bound to him by the circumstances of his death. Not what he had predicted, but not necessarily the worst outcome. Perhaps now, he could even teach Walter what it was like to be a normal person; to behave and receive and feel as normal people did. No fear, no pining, no more bloodshed. 

Well… mostly. 

“Yes,” Walter answers, almost sadly. Henry swears he can hear a tinge of guilt in his voice. “I… hope you won’t hate me, Henry.” 

“No.” The answer is immediate and spoken without thought. It surprises Henry how easily the answer comes. “I don’t- I… You were as much a victim as any of us.” 

“I don’t think so. I did many horrible things. Many unforgivable things.”

“That’s different because…”  _ Because the cult kidnapped you, raised you beneath their watchful eye and literally beat their dogma into you! _ Henry wants to speak the words aloud, but he resigns himself to letting the silence overtake his words. It was enough that Walter recognized his actions for what they were. Henry could work with that. “We’re here now. There’s no undoing anything. Just moving forward.” 

He makes a move to sit up once more, and Walter rises from his resting spot, arms reaching out to grab carefully at Henry’s own, helping him up into a sitting position on the bed. He draws away then, acting as though his very touch could burn the brunet. Henry tries not to frown at the skittish behavior. 

“So let’s make due.” Henry continues, voice calm. “We don’t have to be miserable.” 

“I do not think the others would agree with you.” Walter objects quietly. 

“We’ll work things out.” Henry offers, the barest hint of a smile gracing his features. “One way or another, things will work.”

Walter’s lips part, another objection resting on the tip of his tongue, but a knock from the opposite side of the bedroom door startles both men. They turn to glance at the entrance, waiting for whoever was on the opposite side to enter. 

“Boys, can I come in?” Eileen’s voice rings from the other side, and Henry finds himself relieved to hear her voice again. It’s devoid of pain and full of a sense of life he hadn’t heard in Eileen since before this entire ordeal had begun. The door swings open slowly, and there she is, sporting her normal clothing, free of blood and broken bones and smiling at the two of them. Little Walter steps out from behind her legs, his hands grasping onto the end of her skirt as he peers curiously inside the room. 

“Eileen…” Henry whispers her name, and it feels as though the weight of the world has been lifted off of Henry’s shoulders. He feels like he can breathe again. 

“Hey Henry,” She offers back gently, her eyes flitting between him and Walter. “I hate to interrupt, but there’s some people outside of the apartment, wondering if they can get in. I think they might be some of the other ghosts, but they look normal now.”

Henry and Walter share a look with each other, the blond seeming to be on edge at the news, while Henry was simply curious. Green eyes meet the similar ones of Eileen, and Henry asks rather tentatively. “How many?” 

The tone of Walter’s worlds had shifted considerably, it seemed, and everyone was bent on knowing what was going on now. 

It was the start of something entirely new. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we are again. I recently re-read TheGamingMuse's SH4 fanfic series, and it inspired me to continue this fic. Btw, check out her Youtube channel for some neat Silent Hill lore videos. She's got a great one on both Walter and Henry and how they're actually very similar to each other. I highly recommend her! 
> 
> Anyway, this is less angsty than the first chapter, but it's more plot heavy, so I guess we gotta exchange a couple of things here and there. Either way, I hope you all enjoy!

“I don’t care what the deal is, I wanna see him face to face, right now!” 

“Richard…” Eileen chides him softly, the more volatile ghost standing outside of Apartment 302’s door with his arms crossed over his chest. Little Walter seems to shrink away from the older man’s outburst, his eyes going wide for a moment before he’s skittering away, taking refuge on the couch further in the room. 

“Don’t you see what that sick bastard has done to us? We’re never getting out of here now, never! He’s trapped us all here, Eileen, and worse yet, there’s still fucking who-knows-what shamblin’ around out there. I saw ‘em with my own eyes!” Richard’s disposition seems to sour even more, and he takes a step forward with every intent on entering the apartment. 

Eileen grabs gently at his arm, stopping him with her soft touch. He pauses midstep, obviously not wanting to rip his arm out of her grasp, but looking every bit annoyed that he can’t do it. “Richard, just stop. Listen… things are weird, I know, but it’ll all work out-”

“Like hell I’m settling for this! I’m gonna wring that bastard’s neck-”

The sounds of their voices carry through the walls, a muffled yet moot argument spawning between the two of them. Henry sits on the edge of his bed, still feeling the fatigue from his earlier travels wearing at him. Beside him, seated on the floor below, is Walter, who seems to be doing his best impression of a statue. 

“Richard is pretty angry.” Henry muses aloud, and Walter barely nods at the acknowledgement. Henry’s eyes flit downwards, take in the withdrawn form of the other man, and he sighs tiredly. “I’m sure he’ll… get over it eventually.”

It’s still so strange, talking to the man he’d just recently considered to be his enemy. A cold-blooded killing machine only capable of producing agony and heartache. Now, Walter seems quieter, more contained, and most unnervingly of all, guilty. Henry isn’t sure what to say, what to even do, but sitting there, letting the other man wallow in what he must have imagined to be overwhelming self-condemnation didn’t exactly make him feel the best either. 

“Eileen will talk to him. She’s good at calming people down.”

“I don’t wish to doubt Miss Galvin’s governing abilities, but I don’t think it will change much.” Walter’s voice is low, guarded, like he’s trying desperately not to be heard. 

Henry gives a small shrug at that, and immediately winces at the dull pain that courses through his shoulder. Walter takes notice, and his expression seems to grow darker. “I’m fine.” Henry quickly amends. 

“You were a mangled mess until I put you back together.” Walter informs him darkly. 

“Well, I’ll get better. You did your best.” At least, Henry thinks so. He’s not sure what the extent of Walter’s powers are now, whether or not the man was just another ghost like he and the rest were, or if the apartment’s awakening had granted him complete omnipotence. 

He’s too afraid to ask, so Henry instead settles for waiting patiently to find out. 

The sound of Richard booming loudly once more draws a small wince out of Walter, who seems uncharacteristically frightened by the mouthy man’s increased yelling. Henry frowns at that, and his mind wanders back to the snippets of Walter’s childhood that he’d unearthed during his journey. 

Of course Walter would be intimidated by violent, vocal men. He’d been subject to abuse at the hands of many during his childhood. And Henry… Henry could relate, too. He knows the feeling all too well, of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the angry words to transform into even angrier blows. He swears he can feel phantom pain in his face every time he thinks about it, and the distant memory threatens to drag him back to a place he desperately wants to forget about. 

The familiar creeping feeling of numbness threatens to show its ugly face, and the brunet quickly shakes the thoughts from his head. Now is not the time to become melancholic over his past, Henry thinks. 

“I should go help Eileen,” Henry finally announces, and he stands from his sitting position slowly, feeling all the familiar aches return in vague shadows of themselves. His thigh is sore, his shoulder equally so, and his head throbs lightly, but it’s nothing compared to the open wounds and bruised flesh and bone from before. 

He walks tentatively towards the bedroom door, and only stops when he hears the sound of fabric shuffling. Walter has shifted slightly, his gaze landing on Henry, and his expression is… empty, but also tinged with a sort of sadness that one could miss if they weren’t paying close attention. 

Henry isn’t sure what to say. He’s fantasized about having insightful conversations with Walter, wringing out all the additional information that would let Henry finally complete the puzzle of a man, but to actually speak to him now? To actually have that privilege, without fear of being beaten or shot at or hunted like the prey he was - it was hard to forget that fear, that apprehension. Henry could feel the words on the tip of his tongue, but everything was still too new. Too fresh. Too… strange. 

Henry instead purses his lips for a moment, before letting the ghost of a smile cross over them. He nods subtly, a motion he hopes conveys comfort, but even that feels awkward. He quickly turns around and reaches for the door handle, feeling as if the air in the room was thickening to an uncomfortable degree. 

Plenty of time to mull over broken men and what he could say to them later. For now, it sounded like Eileen was stuck speaking to a brick wall. 

Henry’s not sure what he can really do to help the situation. At best, he can stand there and look sympathetic yet stern, but he doubted that someone as fiery as Richard would care. At worst, he could try and step in and end up getting punched in the face. Either option didn’t sound too appealing. He wanted the secret option where he’s able to ignore everything that’s going on in favor of getting lost in a book or a drawing. 

Of course, that wasn’t an option. It was time to be an adult and do… confrontational things. Things that Henry wasn’t exactly accustomed to, but were expected of him. 

If his long and arduous journey had taught him anything, it was that people seemed to love to put their trust and faith in him, which he was still unsure of why. Maybe it was respect, maybe it was desperation, but either way, it’d helped ground him and steel him towards conflict. 

“You’re not coming in here if you plan on starting a fight! How many times do I have to tell you that? We’re all going to get along and do this right, and I’m not letting you start us off on a bad note. You can go somewhere else until you cool off, but you are not coming in here right now.” Eileen taps her foot impatiently against the floor of the apartment, her own arms now crossed defensively across her chest. 

Henry stops at the junction where the hallway reaches the main room. His eyes flit across the living space, trailing from little Walter to Eileen, and then back to little Walter, who’s curled against the arm of the couch. He hides the lower half of his face with his tiny hand, but his eyes tell Henry everything he needs to know. He’s frightened and nervous and wary of Richard, and Henry can’t exactly blame him. Richard hasn’t been the kindest to him. Well… his current adult self, but that’s getting into the fine details of the current timeline, and Henry doesn’t feel like doing mental gymnastics. 

He directs a soft smile at the child, before pointing sneakily towards Richard and making a shushing motion. Little Walter nods fervently at that, and Henry has to suppress an amused noise in the back of his throat. He turns the corner and approaches Eileen from behind, his footsteps soft and almost muted. 

Eileen seems to sense someone behind her, and she turns with an exasperated huff. “Henry. Talk some sense into him. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.” 

Richard gawks at the dismissal, before quickly redirecting his frustrations towards Henry. “You! You know where he is. Tell me right now, damn it!”

“Richard,” Henry chances gently, holding his hands up in a motion of peace. “Fighting won’t change anything.” 

“No, but you know what it will do? It’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better. So tell her to get out of my way and let me in already!”

“Richard…” Henry sighs, already feeling his headache worsening at the sound of the other man’s voice. He wants to be frank with the other about his chances against Walter. If Walter has retained any of his previous strength, then he’d rip Richard to bloody shreds. Henry would rather avoid the conflict at all costs, if he’s being perfectly honest. 

No one needs that kind of negativity right now. 

“Why are you two defending him, anyway? He killed you both too! You should be pissed- no, you should be seething. I don’t get why you’re so adamant about defending that psychopath.” Richard cocks a hand against his hip, his angry gaze now scrutinizing. 

“It’s a lot deeper than you’re willing to listen to or understand, Richard.” Eileen retorts sharply.

“I’d say. So what do you honestly expect me to do? Ignore him, act like we’re all buddies here, and just… go about my business? You want me to gang up with the other poor bastards here or something?”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea actually. So yeah, that’s exactly what we want you to do.” Eileen smiles slyly at him. 

Richard scoffs at that, rolling his eyes in dramatic fashion. “Like hell I’m doing any of that. Now if we’re done acting like idiots, I have a score to settle-”

Both Henry and Eileen flinch as the front door is slammed shut, Richard’s voice going muffled behind the wood. His voice raises in renewed anger, and the sound of the handle jingling from the other side fills the silence. Henry opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and Eileen looks just as equally stumped. 

The handle jingles for a few more seconds before the sound stops abruptly, and Henry gazes down to see that the handle is missing entirely from the door now. Only a smooth shape of the door remains embedded in the wall now. It makes panic arise within Henry, and the idea of being trapped once more sends ice flowing through his veins. He tries to quell the sudden claustrophobia that threatens to overtake him, sucking in a shuddered breath that does nothing to calm his nerves.

Eileen takes notice in the change of demeanor, and she approaches him carefully, hand outstretched to plaster gently against Henry’s shoulder. “Henry…” She calls softly, her voice comforting despite the fear wracking him. 

He notices her green eyes shift to something behind him, and Henry turns just in time to see Walter round the corner of the hallway. For a moment, he doesn’t look at either of them, instead staring forward, silently and ominously. But then his head is turning fractionally, and his unreadable gaze is left sitting on Henry. 

“I thought I would help.” He offers quietly, politely. He also seems to take notice of Henry’s disposition, and his brows furrow slightly, an expression of guilt passing over his face. “I’ll bring the door back when he leaves.”

That manages to make Henry relax somewhat, but the idea of being confined to the small apartment with Walter moving about like a monument of sadness makes Henry’s chest constrict. He spares a look towards Eileen, before patting at her wrist, signaling that he’s alright. She smiles warmly at him, before directing it towards Walter with equal genuinity. 

“Thank you, Walter. I don’t know about Henry, but I was super close to losing my mind right there. God, it was like listening to a tape on repeat.” She pauses for a moment, eyes flitting back towards Henry. “I saw someone else out there too, but they seemed to have wandered off during our argument. It must have been one of the other…” She trails off slowly, the obvious intent not to say a certain word there. 

Henry immediately feels tension fill the air, and Eileen appears to be on the verge of apologizing. Walter, however, speaks before she can even get the word out. “I will leave you two alone.” 

“Walter-” Eileen tries, but then the two of them are blinking, and suddenly it’s just them and Walter’s child self left in the room. The older counterpart is nowhere to be seen, having seemingly vanished into thin air. Henry sighs softly, offering Eileen a small shrug in response to the sudden disappearance. Eileen shakes her head slowly. “I guess that’s something we’ll have to work on. It’s the big purple elephant in the middle of the room.”

It would be akin to walking on eggshells, Henry realizes. If they’re to avoid any mention of what happened previously, they’d have to tiptoe around Walter, as if he were a nuclear reactor ready to melt down at any moment. At the same time though, Henry had the sneaking suspicion that none of them would ever be able to move forward unless they addressed what happened between them. 

It would be painful. It would possibly even be traumatic. If Henry still felt that creeping fear just by being in Walter’s presence, then Eileen must have felt it too. One didn’t forget the act of being killed, after all. It stuck with you, an impossibly dark and sinister blemish on one’s mind. Even now, Henry had trouble separating killer from unfortunate, tortured soul. It would take a while to come to terms with everything. 

Until then, all they could do was wait.

* * *

True to Walter’s word, the door reappears about an hour later. Yet, there’s still no sign of the enigmatic man himself, and hours after that, the apartment is still only housing three people. 

Eileen sits with little Walter on the floor in front of the coffee table, a board game that Henry had completely forgotten about owning scattered across the surface. He’s seated at the counter, turned around in the chair so he can watch the two of them play, but his mind is far off somewhere else, and his disposition is quickly evolving into something impatient. 

Another thirty minutes pass before he’s standing from his seat, and gingerly walking over to the chest beside the television. As he begins to rifle through the contents, he can hear Eileen ask rather tentatively. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to go search for others,” Henry answers her simply, retrieving his weathered gun from the chest. He checks the magazine and replaces any rounds lost. To be perfectly honest, he’s surprised at how much ammo is leftover from his previous travels. 

“Richard said there were still… things out there. Are you sure that’s a good idea, Henry?”

He offers her an unsure shrug, his honesty shining through. “Probably not.” He’s been through worse, Henry thinks to himself, so a little reconnaissance here and there wouldn’t hurt. “But people might need help if they’re alone or lost.”

“Being an altruistic idiot again, huh?” Eileen’s voice lacks any real malice. She smiles at Henry, and it’s an insightful look. 

“It’s one of the few things I’m apparently good at.” He offers her jokingly, stuffing one last nutrition drink into his pocket before shutting the chest. Henry turns towards her, and tacks on a bit more seriously, “If I’m not back within a day-”

“You’ll be back within a day.” Eileen interrupts him, her voice hardening to a slightly frightening degree. “Don’t do anything too dangerous, Henry. If you feel like you’re having trouble, come back immediately.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Unlike before, where he would go through a hole and wonder pessimistically where this one would take him, Henry finds that the spiral staircase from before remains, linking up all of Walter’s Otherworlds together in one long winding path. He begins to search through them one by one, starting with the Apartment World, which is where he, Eileen, and little Walter now live. 

Richard is right though, there are still monsters lurking here and there, but Henry notices a few things about them; one, they’re much rarer to encounter now, and two, they seem to be less aggressive than before, instead shambling about aimlessly and only taking notice when Henry got too close. 

He’s able to easily sneak past the majority of them, only having to spare a bullet or two here and there. He scours the apartments one by one, searching for anyone who may be hiding, but it’s to no avail. No one turns up, and Henry is left seeking out the staircase again, moving on to the next world. 

“It wouldn’t have hurt for them to stick around,” Henry mutters bitterly to himself, feeling the familiar burn of covering the winding steps begin to spread through his legs. 

The Building World is next, and as Henry is progressing through the rooms, he’s nearly knocked to the floor by something sturdy and narrow colliding into his back. Instead, he stumbles forward and catches himself on the table there, knocking dishes and silverware about as he tries to right himself once more. 

He turns just in time to see an old woman wind her hands back, a broom clutched between them as she attempts to attack him once more. Henry holds his hands aloft, his eyes going wide as he tries to calm her, “Hey w-wait! I’m not here to hurt you!”

“...You’re not?” She asks warily, eyes frantic and arms trembling with adrenaline.

“No, no.” Henry reaffirms, dusting himself off. Now that she was no longer trying to swing at him, he finally allows himself a good look at her face. Without the distortions and ghastly appearance, it’s almost hard to remember who she is, but Henry vaguely remembers seeing her before. “You… you were one of the ghosts.”

“I…” She hesitates, dropping the broom onto the floor with a clattering sound. “I was, yes. But everything is normal again. Or… I am, at least.”

“I think everyone is.” Henry informs her. “Which one are you?”

“My name is Sharon,” she answers tentatively. Now that she no longer perceived Henry as a threat, her whole body seems to deflate, and she very much looks the part of a tired, old woman. “They… he killed me, when I went to look for them. My family.”

“Them?”

“The Order. That crazy cult in Silent Hill. They sent him after me. I should have known it would be dangerous to go into that forest.” She rubs idly at her arm, eyes going downcast as she recalls the details. Henry feels a pang of sympathy run through him.

“I’m sorry,” Henry murmurs quietly. He steps forward carefully, slowly, as to not frighten her further. “I’m looking for others who might be lost. Have you seen anyone else?”

“I think I recall seeing someone in that one place… the place with the water. The big cylinder. Whatever that thing is. I’m not sure, I didn’t want to stay there. It was too scary.” Sharon’s voice wittles away, fear seeping into her tone. 

“The Water Prison.” Henry affirms, nodding once to himself. Now he was faced with another dilemma though, one he hadn’t thought about before. Where was he going to put all of these poor souls once he found them all? Room 302 wasn’t nearly big enough to house that many people.

Worse yet, there were certain individuals Henry would rather not encounter, much rather save. Andrew came to mind immediately, along with certain cult members who’d had a hand in Walter’s descent into madness. 

“Stay here and stay safe,” Henry finally speaks, turning his full attention to Sharon. “I’m going to figure something out, and then I’ll be back, okay?” 

Sharon nods, her weary and age old eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m not going anywhere, especially outside.”

* * *

The Water Prison is still disgustingly dank and wet, and the smell still carries with it the scent of death and decay. Henry hated this world the most. He hated the sinister history of the structure, the suffering borne here making his stomach churn at the thought of it. It was a house full of pain, nothing more and nothing less. 

It was the bane of Walter’s existence.

He’s shocked when he hears a scream sound throughout the circular hallway, a familiar voice rising to a crescendo as one of the monsters nearby growled. “Get the hell away from me!” 

Henry rushes around the curve of the hallway, and comes across one of the room’s doors flung wide open, one of the Twin Victims trying to squeeze through the narrow frame as something on the other side hurled colorful insults at it. Henry raises his pistol and fires four consecutive shots into the creature’s back, watching as it shudders and collapses onto the floor in a black heap. 

He pushes past the massive corpse, and is nearly knocked over by the force that collides into his chest. Arms wrap around his midsection, a thick accent bleeding through as they clung to him and sobbed dramatically, “Oh Henry, I’m so happy to see you!”

“Cynthia…” Henry acknowledges her, patting at her back gently and rather awkwardly. “How did you get here?”

“I don’t know! I don’t remember anything after… after what happened. I just woke up here and I couldn’t find a way out. Everything looks the same, and those things are out there. I thought I was dead, Henry!” 

“We are dead,” Henry clarifies perhaps a little too casually. He sees the color drain from Cynthia’s face. 

“So it wasn’t… a dream? It was real? We’re really dead, Henry?” Her voice is so small, it almost hurts to hear. 

Henry nods grimly, but attempts to comfort her with his next words. “It’s going to be alright. I don’t think we’re in any real danger anymore.” 

“But we’re dead,” Cynthia repeats quietly, her voice hushed. 

“We’re still here, aren’t we?” 

She sniffles lightly, wiping at her damp eyes with the back of her hand. “What are you doing here, Henry?” 

“I’m looking for everyone. The other victims.” He leads her over to the blessedly somewhat clean bed and motions for her to sit and rest. “We shouldn’t be apart, if we’re going to make this work. We should work together.” 

“You want to reunite everyone?” 

Henry nods, “Mostly everyone. I don’t think he would be too happy with someone like Andrew around.”

“Who, Walter?” Cynthia asks, disbelief coloring her tone. 

He nods yet again. “It’s… different now, Cynthia. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, I think.” 

“You think.” She says flatly. 

“I’m pretty sure. He seems… regretful. Sad.” 

“Well… that’s great and all. But I think it might take some time, you know?” She shudders suddenly, something chilling having obviously run through her. Henry knew what it must have been. “You don’t just forget, Henry.”

“I know. Trust me, I do.” Henry’s fingers graze across the numbers carved into his flesh, feeling the rises and fall of marred skin beneath his fingers. His eyes close, the memory of that blooming pain spreading through his abdomen making him nearly tremble. “I know I’m asking a lot from you.”

Cynthia chances a shaky laugh at that, “I do owe you that special favor, don’t I? Consider this it.”

Henry has to suppress his own laughter. He’d almost forgotten about that entire conversation. “Deal.”

She wipes one last time at her eyes, sucking in a quick breath to steady her voice. “So what do we do, Henry?”

* * *

The hour is late by the time Henry arrives back at the apartment. It seems a day and night cycle has fallen over all of Walter’s Otherworlds, and where time had been frozen in some of the locations, it seemed to apply everywhere now. The apartments are considerably darker, and the monsters seem braver in the inky darkness, so Henry has to tiptoe carefully around to avoid drawing any of their attention. 

The hallway housing his apartment seems to be a safe haven, though. Lights flicker on the walls here, and it’s blessedly lighter than any other place in the Apartment World. Henry breathes out a sigh of relief as he approaches the door, and opens it slowly, so as not to startle Eileen or little Walter. 

He wonders if the adult Walter ever came back. He’s a little anxious to know. 

Eileen seems to want to spring to her feet upon seeing him, but then remembers little Walter, who is sound asleep on her lap. She instead gently moves him aside, laying a pillow beneath his head as he stirs somewhat. She quietly steps over to Henry, and asks him in a hushed voice, “Any luck?” 

“I found a few.” Henry answers just as quietly, lumbering over wearily to the sink before fetching a clear glass. He didn’t know much about his appetite, seeing as how hunger hadn’t stricken him yet, but he did feel thirsty after travelling about on foot so much. He runs the water until it’s cold, and lets it fill his glass up to the brim. 

“Where are they?” Eileen asks, following him into the kitchen. 

“They’re safe. I told them to hide for now.” Henry downs the glass in a few big gulps, exhaling in one big gust after discarding the cup in the sink. “I need to figure out where to keep these people, Eileen.”

“That’s true,” Eileen sighs, and looks around at the limited space in the apartment. “Who did you find?”

“A woman named Sharon - she was one of the other victims - and Cynthia. She was the first person I met in these Otherworlds. I managed to make it to the forest, and there was Jasper too, and two other guys with him. They were, um-” Henry stops short, not sure how to phrase ‘they were losing their fucking minds over what had happened’ nicely. “They’re fine.”

“That’s good. I’m sure more people will show up once the word gets out that you’re looking for them.” Eileen leans against the fridge, and idly toys with one of the magnets there. “What do you plan on doing about the living arrangements?” 

“I don’t know,” Henry answers honestly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I think… I might need to ask Walter about it.”

“Well, good luck. He hasn’t been back here since he left.” 

“I know,” Henry looks around at their meager living space, and steps away from the sink’s counter. He stretches, working out all the weary muscles in his body, before turning to gaze at Eileen. “Do you think if I just… ask for him, he’ll show up?” 

“Could be worth a shot. It’s better than anything I’ve got at the moment.” She doubles back around the counter, moving smoothly and silently back to little Walter, who seems to respond to her presence almost immediately. Eileen retakes her seat on the couch, and begins to card her nimble fingers through his short, blond hair. “This is his world, right?” 

‘He probably knows everything that’s going on,’ Henry muses to himself silently. He clears his throat, and it takes a few seconds for the words to finally manifest, his bravery wavering for a moment as he considered the fact that he’d have to talk face to face with Walter again. “Walter…? If you’re there… if you can hear me?”

It’s utterly silent in the apartment for what feels like a solid minute. Eileen begins to look sympathetic towards Henry, her brows drawing downwards and her lips spreading into a sheepish smile. Henry can feel another sigh bubbling up, threatening to spill out of him, but then the sound of something ruffling behind him nearly startles him out of his skin. 

He turns, and there stands Walter, between him and the sink, which isn’t exactly a lot of space. Henry has to resist the urge to jump backwards, that familiar burn of adrenaline threatening to show its face once more. He’s associated having Walter so close with pain and only pain, and as such, it’s hard to break himself of his learned instincts. 

Henry still hesitates, however, feeling his throat restrict and his stomach flip with nervousness. He’s still not sure of how to speak to Walter. To consider him a friend feels too unearned. To consider him an enemy seems dismissive and cruel. Henry is somehow stuck in the in-between. 

Walter, mercifully, speaks first, but Henry notices something about him. His tone is tired, his body looking even more so, and it’s a far cry from the strong, unwavering killer he’d once been. It makes a seed of worry sprout within Henry. “What do you need?” 

Henry mouths on nothing for a moment, before he finds his voice again. “The other vi- ghosts. They need somewhere to stay. Can you do anything about that?” 

Walter looks hard at Henry for a moment, his strange-colored eyes looking for something unknown to the brunet, but he eventually ends up nodding, his gaze averting elsewhere. His eyes eventually close, and there’s a span of silence between the two, before Walter is speaking again. “It’s done.”

“Is it…?” Henry asks skeptically. 

Walter nods, almost mechanically. “The other rooms here are safe now. The monsters cannot enter them.” 

“Oh,” Henry breathes out. “Then-”

“If that’s all you need, I’ll be going now.” 

“W-Wait-”

It’s too late. Walter vanishes into thin air almost immediately, and Henry is left gawking at the spot where he once stood. 

Eileen breaks the silence. “I feel like something is bothering him. He’s… acting really strange.”

To be fair, they probably didn’t know what normal Walter was like, but Henry had to agree. Something was off with the other man. Walter indeed seem troubled by something, though Henry highly doubted that he would ever admit to what was bothering him. Still… it made dread bloom inside of Henry. If Walter’s Otherworlds were influenced by his psyche, then what would this entail? Henry would have to get to the bottom of it, eventually. 

He did once before, and he’ll gladly do it again. 

“I’ll try to catch him.” Henry mutters aloud, more to himself than Eileen. 

“If he comes back around, I’ll try talking to him, too. We didn’t talk much, you know… maybe he’ll trust me?” Optimism bleeds into Eileen’s tone, though what she suggests cuts Henry at his core. 

Maybe Walter didn’t trust him enough to open up. Maybe he just saw Henry as another number, necessary for the ritual. Maybe that cryptic ‘thank you’ before the gunshot went off was merely Walter thanking him for choosing to die. Henry’s mind spun and spun, and nothing he came up with in regards to the other soothed his feelings. 

“I’m going to sleep,” Henry announces rather suddenly, turning towards the bedroom hallway and heading down it. 

“Henry…” Eileen’s voice carries over the distance, but for just this one time, Henry chooses to ignore it, instead wanting nothing more than to curl up and banish all of his thoughts for a while. 

He lies in his bed for what feels like an hour, before his thoughts finally calm enough for sleep to take him. Even then, he’s not prepared for the nightmares that assault him. He tosses and turns and whimpers in his sleep, but no one is near enough to hear, and Henry once again deals with the demons of his past. 

They’re too familiar, and worst of all, just as violent as he remembers them.

* * *

Days pass. A week must come and go. Henry gathers up the former ghosts one by one, sometimes grouped up in pairs of two or three, and introduces them to the now safe rooms of the Apartment World. Cynthia is only too happy to meet Eileen, for reasons she deems important because ‘Eileen is a girl like her and she could totally use the conversation over all these weird and creepy guys.’ 

Henry respects that. A lot of Walter’s victims were pretty troubled individuals. Some of them weren’t, but it was hard to deny that a few of them had some nuts and bolts loose. 

She also ends up fawning over little Walter, whom she’d never met prior to her death. The woman doesn’t seem to associate any of the adult counterpart with the child, and as such, she pours her affections and doting behavior into little Walter, who only seems too happy to have another ‘parent’ looking out for him. 

The women give the child almost anything he wants or needs that’s within their power. Henry is often left looking from afar, the barest of smiles spread over his lips. Little Walter seems to enjoy his company too, and he’s often wrangled into their games with him, which Henry graciously loses to allow little Walter to win. He can’t count on his hands how many times he’s feigned making an obvious mistake, just so the child can gloat. It makes him happy, however, to see little Walter so happy. Maybe there were some things that were worth the ritual. 

Still… the adult Walter had been missing for days on end. Henry had gone out in attempts to scour the Otherworlds for supplies and ammo, though really, he’d just been hoping to run into the other. There was never any luck, however. He remained elusive of everyone it seemed, and Henry was no different. Even when he called, it was like Walter knew there was nothing of import to show up for. 

Henry was beginning to lose hope. At this rate, the man would probably never show his face again. He wondered what must have been eating at Walter, to make him so reclusive. 

Henry knew to a degree that Walter obviously felt bad about the Sacraments. He recognized guilt when he saw it, and if the meek, quiet behavior Walter exhibited during his short time in the apartment showed Henry anything, it was that the man was eaten up with it. But something else was wrong, something Henry couldn’t put his finger on. Something else was snaking its way around Walter’s mind, and the longer the other stayed gone, the more Henry worried himself to the point of being sick. 

He comes back from one of his scouting adventures one evening, and finds Cynthia, Eileen, and little Walter waiting at the door for him. Henry shucks his shoes off, though his eyes remained fixated on the trio. “Is everything alright?” 

“Eileen came up with a good idea. We think you should hear it.” Cynthia smiles warmly at him, one of her hands remaining plastered over little Walter’s shoulder. 

“Oh?” Henry turns his attention towards Eileen, who seems almost nervous about what to say. 

“It’s just… I checked my apartment earlier today, and yeah, it’s normal again. And it’s a little bigger than the space we have here. If it’s alright with you Henry, I’d like to go back to it and stay. No offense to you at all, of course! It’s just… it’s cramped here, and I think little Walter needs a bit more space, you know?” 

“Oh.” It sounds more hollow than Henry would like, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t grown accustomed to the company. However, he’s not about to try and make Eileen or Cynthia do anything that they don’t want to. “That’s fine. Just… be careful, please?”

“Of course! And you better show your face often, or else we’re invading you. If you go somewhere, you better let us know. Right Cynthia?” Eileen presses at Henry’s shoulder with her knuckle, jostling him slightly. 

“That’s damn- I mean! I mean darn right!” Cynthia quickly corrects herself, casting an apologetic look towards little Walter. “Don’t go being an idiot now, you hear us? You’re too cute to get hurt.” She winks at Henry, and he tries not to blush at the comment, instead casting his gaze away. 

“I promise I’ll let you know.” 

“Good boy! We’re also hijacking your board games, so I hope that’s okay too.” Cynthia points to the stack of games that is looking a little too lopsided on Henry’s counter. 

“That’s fine too. I wasn’t using them.” 

“Alright then, Mr. Fine. Oh, and if you see him…” Cynthia doesn’t seem to want to elaborate on a name, but Henry knows exactly who she’s talking about. 

“I’ll let you know if he comes around.” He directs his attention towards Eileen, who seems a bit more sympathetic. “Will you be alright?” 

“I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.” It’s true, Henry thinks. Even while grievously injured, Eileen helped him fight off the hordes of monsters that pursued them. She was tougher than most people Henry could even think of. 

They share a few more words, mostly sentimental sayings, and Henry is sure to bend down and pat little Walter’s head, telling him to watch over his two moms. The boy only seems too eager to take up the task, and he replies with a confident ‘Yes Sir’. 

The trio leaves the apartment, and Henry sees that their short trek to room 303 is a safe and uneventful one. Eileen casts him a positive wink before closing her door, and Henry sinks back into his own apartment, feeling lonelier and more empty than before. The night is still relatively young, and there’s no need for sleep, so he finds himself ambling around the apartment aimlessly, touching at books he’s yet to read, or rifling through his stacks of photographs and drawings. 

He finally settles his attention on his sketchbook, and after observing some of the unfinished pieces in it, finally builds up enough motivation to start scrawling lines here and there without any thought. The rough sketch eventually takes on the shape of a face, and from there, Henry begins to sketch out the details. 

Long, unkempt hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail. Stubble here and there, striking yet tired eyes. A look of knowing confidence, as if they knew they were right all along. The first beginnings of a collar of a coat, reaching up around his neck. Henry doesn’t dare admit to what this drawing is becoming, too afraid to address what it means, but too focused to stop. 

An hour later, and there sits a slightly differing image of the man Henry’s thoughts obsessed over. Perhaps an image of him outside of The Order’s influence. A normal, perhaps quiet man who was enjoying college or working a part time job. A man devoid of blood or deadly weapons or the crazy ramblings that were beaten into his head. 

Henry stares at the portrait for a long while, trying to imagine Walter as someone else. But it never quite works. It’s a shame, he thinks, that if Walter had never been subject to the horrors of that cult, Henry probably wouldn’t be thinking about him so hard. He’d be another faceless person like himself - unimportant, unextraordinary, and forgettable. 

It took all of these monstrous circumstances to make Walter important to somebody else. The line should have never been crossed, Henry thinks. But there’s an irrational part of him that was glad to have met Walter. A lonely part, perhaps, but Henry can’t help but feel some sort of kindred with him. 

Maybe it was because he could relate to Walter’s childhood to a certain degree. Certainly nowhere near as fucked up, but still existing on the same wavelength. It’s funny, Henry thinks. Walter would do anything to have parents, and Henry desperately wishes that he could forget his own.

He touches lightly at his cheek, and nearly flinches at the feel of his own hand. He’d gone to school many days boasting a black eye or a swollen cheek, but no one dared to question him why. It was like if they could pretend that it wasn’t there, then it wasn’t happening. It was real though, for Henry. Every night brought apprehension, every argument between his parents made ice sink into his veins. Every whiff of alcohol made him want to curl up in his bed and try not to exist. 

Every fist that ever connected with his face made him want to fade away. But he never did, and it only ended the same way it began. Henry will never forget the smell and feel of blood splattered across his face, will never forget seeing the end of that large knife sticking out of his father’s chest. The blood on his beaten mother’s hands, the look of complete horror written across her face. Even now, thinking of it makes Henry want to purge all thought from his mind. He’s tried so hard to forget everything, that the memory has been permanently shoved to the back of his head. 

He shudders, and shakes visibly, forcing the imagery from his head. The sketchbook is closed up and discarded on his desk, the picture of the man within bringing forth too many bad memories. 

He suddenly feels restless, and maybe even a little reckless. Henry quickly stands from his seat in his bedroom, and briskly exits both his room and the apartment. The only gear he has on him is the pistol he keeps tucked in his pocket, but there’s only one clip and he’s not carrying any nutrition drinks. 

He does not stop to tell Eileen or Cynthia that he’s leaving. The thought never crosses his buzzing mind. 

He instead traverses the Otherworlds aimlessly, wandering from one area to the next, taking down monsters when it’s necessary and caring not for the quickly emptying clip in his pistol. It’s only when he goes to fire at one of the hounds that he realizes there’s nothing left. Henry quickly dashes away, down a series of confusing and dark corridors that seem to grow dimmer and more frightening the further he goes. 

The sound of the dogs huffing and snarling fades away, and Henry finds himself lost among derelict doors and steel grates. He’s confused as to where he’s landed himself, not recognizing this part of Walter’s Otherworld. Perhaps he’d never had to wander this way during his travels, but the lack of information on the area sets his nerves on end. 

He’s just about to turn around and try to find his way back when he hears something faintly further down the hallway. Henry is immediately put on edge, knowing for a fact that he’d found the most desirable of the other victims already. He’d purposely avoided people like Andrew, and he knew there were a few other bad eggs in Walter’s Otherworlds, but he still wasn’t sure of who. 

His fears are multiplied when he recognizes the sound as hushed whispering, though the tone behind the voice was anything but calm. Henry, instead of retreating, moves closer to the noise, remaining as silent as possible as to avoid being detected. 

“You failed,” The voice whispers harshly, and Henry can hear something else akin to impatient pacing on the other side of the door. “Somewhere along the line, you failed, and it resulted in our goals being perverted into something else entirely. Do you understand me?” 

“If I had any idea that he would turn on us, do you think I would have let it happen? Of course not. The boy has too much of a mind of his own. He may have acted the part, but it’s clear he only cared about his own motives.”

“Even with the ceremony?” 

“Yes,” The other voice groans irritably. “I was certain allowing him to enter his mind would set him along the right path. It worked… to degree-”

“It resulted in us getting killed.” The first voice growls. “That was never a part of the plan, George.” 

“Something must have gone wrong.” 

Henry can feel something uneasy sink into his stomach. The more he listens to these two strangers go back and forth, the more he’s beginning to think that he’s found the exact people he was trying to avoid. But a part of him wants to stay, to see what they’re talking about and to judge whether or not it posed a danger to the others. 

George… he’d heard that name somewhere before. It sounds so familiar, and yet… he can’t quite recall. 

Henry leans up against the door, vying for more information to be spilled. 

“It’s not right. What he’s done now wasn’t supposed to happen. He’s changed something.” The voice belonging to the one called George continues. “This is not the Paradise we were promised.” 

“Indeed. If it were, do you think we would still be trapped here, stuck in his world? Of course not. We would be honored. We’re supposed to be. Nothing will ever be right until we make it right ourselves.” 

“I agree. If we’re to right this mishap, then we’ll have to take matters into our own hands. He… will die.”

The brunet’s eyes widen, his heart beginning to beat a violent rhythm. When they spoke of ‘him’... surely, they must have meant Walter? It made no sense otherwise. And if their words are anything to go by, then these two men must have had a hand in starting Walter’s brutal killing spree. 

Henry’s apprehension quickly turns to bright, red anger. He wished so desperately that he hadn’t wasted his bullets on the creatures outside. He would have gladly planted them in the heads of these two monsters, if given the chance. 

These were the men responsible; the ones to be held accountable for Walter’s descent into madness. They did something to him, something irreversible and malevolent, and it must have changed Walter. Henry could gather that much from what they were saying. He backs away from the door slowly, silently, the pistol in his pocket feeling like molten metal, his face warped in a rare showing of anger. 

If these two were plotting against Walter, then he would have to know right away. Henry wouldn’t let anyone else hurt the man, even if it meant he had to take matters into his own hands. No one else would have the pleasure of harming Walter Sullivan. 

“What was that?” One of the hushed voices whispers harshly. Henry feels his blood run cold. 

“Someone is here. Jimmy, the door.” 

Henry begins to run. He discards any attempt at being stealthy in favor of fleeing from the two men. He was unarmed, unprepared for a fight, and the numbers piled against him would do him no favors. 

The door is slammed open, and out wanders a man wearing some sort of white garb laced with red details. Another man follows, dressed similarly, their eyes boring holes into Henry’s back as he retreats. Henry spares a glance back towards them, and notices that the one referred to as ‘Jimmy’ holds his hand aloft. 

He doesn’t see it coming, for it hits him from the front. 

A sniffer hound appears from the darkness and lunges at Henry, sinking its teeth into his calf. He yelps in pain as a fresh wave of blood gushes past the bite wound, and the creature rends his leg back and forth, deepening the wound. It doesn’t take much for him to collapse, the dog planting its large, clawed feet on Henry’s chest. He can feel their sharp points tearing through his shirt, leaving small pinpricks of blood in their wake. 

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Townshend. So nice of you to show up. We were just talking about how to fix this entire mess, you see.” Jimmy approaches Henry from down the hall, taking his sweet time as the sniffer hound snarled and growled from above, pinning Henry down. “I suppose starting with the one who tried to undo all of our work is fitting. Wouldn’t you say, George?” 

“It’s not who I want, personally, but this will be a good reprieve.” George reaches into his robe and reveals a knife tucked away behind the material. “Should I carve him up, or would you like the honor?” 

“We should share.” Jimmy smiles, and it’s a vile, toothy look. 

Henry can feel his heart beating erratically in his chest, thudding against his ribs as if it were trying to break free of them. The acrid breath of the dog above him nearly makes him gag, but he’s helpless as he is. If he tries to move or escape, the dog will tear into him. If he continues lying here, then Jimmy and George will get their hands on him. Either option isn’t exactly favorable. 

He’s honestly doomed either way. There’s nothing he can do to get out of this situation. No holes to crawl through, no bullets or weapons to fight back with, no apartment nearby to keep him safe. This is it. He’s finally met his end. 

The brunet sucks in a choked breath, feeling tears sting at his eyes. He blinks them away rapidly, refusing to give these two monsters the pleasure of seeing him cry. He would die with dignity, perhaps even spit in their faces if allowed the option. He only wishes he’d spoken to Eileen and Cynthia before leaving. He only wishes he could have warned Walter before these two men cornered him. 

Maybe his corpse will be enough of a warning.

“Hold him still, I want to carve out his heart.” George chuckles darkly, sliding the blade of the knife across his sleeve. “It’s a bit poetic, don’t you think?” 

“Emulating your pupil? How endearing. I’m sure you’d much rather do that to Walter than him, though.” Jimmy’s footsteps finally stop, and he leers down at Henry from his towering height. “I suppose this will make good practice, however.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Henry’s voice is naught but an angry whisper, strained by the hound’s weight on his chest and the blooming pain exploding from his calf.

“Because, we do as we like, Mr. Townshend. Is that not enough of a reason?” Jimmy takes the opportunity to step down on Henry’s wrist, and the sudden pressure has the downed man groaning out a noise of pain. 

“If anything, you should be applauding us. Was Walter not the proprietor of your own death? You should be blessed to have someone willing to _take care_ of him.” George bends down to knee level, and he trails the tip of his blade across Henry’s collarbone, stopping at the point where the bloody numbers rest behind his shirt. 

“He wouldn’t have turned out the way he did if it weren’t for you two!” Henry nearly snarls, feeling a deep and hidden anger claw its way to the surface. “You messed him up! You did something to him, and he’s never been the same!” 

“Mouthy, mouthy.” Jimmy chides him mockingly. His face contorts suddenly, his teeth baring as he growls down at Henry, increasing the pressure of his foot on Henry’s wrist. Henry hears - no, he feels something snap, and the scream that tears its way from his lungs is impossible to stifle. Worse yet, his thrashing angers the sniffer hound above him, and he feels it respond in kind by digging its claws into his chest. 

Henry whimpers loudly at that, the stinging pain of flesh being torn apart making him shudder and choke on his own breath. 

“I never liked the ones who talked back. Shall we put this to rest?” George asks, and pulls his knife back with every intent to stab. Henry’s vision swims, the combination of the pain and adrenaline proving to be too much.

He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing himself for the worst. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out. If not…

He doesn’t want to think about what they’re going to do to him. 

He hears George grunt, the blade presumably being brought down in a stabbing motion, but the pain never registers. Henry waits, and waits, and waits, and still nothing comes. No pain, not even what he presumes to be death. Strangely enough, the sniffer hound holding him down has also gone stock still and quiet. 

He chances opening one of his eyes, and sees that the knife is a mere foot away from his chest. But even more unnervingly so, the wrist connected to the hand holding the knife is being held at bay by another hand. A blue sleeve travels down the length of the arm. 

Henry rasps weakly, “Walter…?” 

“Walter…!” He hears Jimmy’s voice, and notices that there’s now an undertone of fear there. 

“I should have made sure that you two stayed put.” Walter speaks, but his voice is hard and unforgiving. His eyes, even more so, are probably the most frightening part of him. Henry has never seen them appear so cold. 

George struggles against the iron vice grip around his wrist, thrashing from left and right in an attempt to free himself. Walter doesn’t budge, and instead tightens his grip, which in turn rips a howl of pain out of the robed man. The blond turns, almost casually, and spies the sniffer hound still pinning Henry to the ground. 

Wordlessly, he retrieves a pistol from his coat with his free hand, and plants a bullet directly in its head. Henry feels a gush of blood splatter across his clothing and skin. In that moment, between the pain and the fear and his fading mind, the likeness is too much. 

Henry’s suddenly not in the decrepit hallway anymore. He’s in his kitchen, pressed against the counter, a rain of fists pattering against his face, his mother’s screams hoarse and desperate as she tries to gather herself up off the floor. His father refuses to stop, and he can feel each blow making his face swell, his nose bleed profusely, his lip split and leak sluggishly. 

It’s the knife all over again. The spray of blood, the terrible weight collapsing against him, his mother’s frantic breathing, her scream of horror when she’s realized what she’s done. Henry collapses to the floor, numb and defeated and wanting nothing more than to curl up and die in that moment. 

Maybe that’s what he does then, so lost in his own past and demons. He curls into himself and let’s the images play out like some sort of cruel slideshow, a reminder of why he never let himself remember. He doesn’t register the screams that fill the hallway, the sound of a pistol firing multiple times, the terrible gurgling noise that accompanies the wet slash and stab of something. 

He goes numb and silent and unresponsive, his eyes looking at something far away, his violent heartbeat the only reminder that he was still alive. Or as close as he could be.

It’s only a few minutes later, when he finally snaps out of his forced reverie, that Henry looks around himself. He sees in front of him the body of Jimmy, bullet holes marring his head in various places, and gore spilling from his skull. Henry covers his mouth with his good hand, and tries not to gag at the sight. 

He turns his attention elsewhere, which is probably even worse, for he finally catches a glimpse of what Walter is doing to George. 

Walter is straddling George’s lifeless body, his arm bloodied up to his elbow, a knife clutched between his slick fingers. Down and down he slashes and stabs, destroying George’s chest and rendering both bones and muscle tissue visible. Bits of flesh fly off of George with each strike, landing with the most sickening noise Henry has ever heard. Walter seems to be in an endless frenzy, breathing erratic and voice stuck on growls of effort and rage. 

Henry can’t bear to watch. Certainly not because he cares for the wellbeing of Jimmy or George, but simply because it reminds him too much of the old Walter. He can’t let the other continue, however. George was already a shredded mess. There was barely anything left of his chest. 

Summoning what little strength he has, Henry begins to crawl over to the other, feeling blood and all sorts of slick material slide beneath his hand. He tries not to think about it, tries to ignore the pain plaguing his body in favor of gaining Walter’s attention. 

“Walter. Walter!” His voice is rough and filled with exertion. It’s to no avail, however. Walter continues to stab at George, the blood painting his face and coat heavily. Henry bites harshly at his bottom lip, his eyes screwing closed, before he’s trying again. “Walter, please…” 

Still nothing. Henry knows it’s foolish to try, could even result in the blade being turned on him, but he has to do something to knock Walter out of his feral frenzy. He can’t stand to see the other revert back like this, not after having seen what his peaceful side looks like. Henry swallows thickly, and he reaches outwards. 

He manages to wrap his fingers around Walter’s wrist, the man finally halting in favor of turning his vicious eyes upon Henry. The brunet flinches backwards, still holding onto Walter’s wrist, but dreading what it may entail. Henry’s eyes close again, too afraid to see what lay in front of him. His hand trembled against Walter’s wrist, his grip slick with sweat and his heartbeat in his ears. 

The sound of the knife clattering to the ground makes Henry jump again. Walter takes notice immediately, only the sound of his frantic breathing filling the hallway. Henry opens his eyes slowly, and chances a look at the other man. 

Walter’s face is drawn, his expression confused and his demeanor almost apologetic. “Henry…” 

The sound of his name being spoken by the other has Henry exhaling a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He shudders and collapses back onto the floor, holding his mangled wrist and breathing deeply. 

He barely registers Walter moving over to his side, nor the feel of blood-slick hands taking his wrist and cradling it gently. Henry can feel himself slipping into unconsciousness, the physical and emotional trauma, adrenaline, and fatigue finally catching up to him. 

Walter seems to check him over for a moment, before he’s bending down and whispering in Henry’s ear. “I will take us back. Rest now.” 

It’s enough to beckon him the rest of the way. Henry closes his eyes, and let’s Walter move him about the Otherworld.

* * *

He wakes once again in his bed, the turning of the fan a familiar and comforting image above.

Nearby, he can hear women speaking, both of their voices sounding angry and carrying through the apartment’s walls. Henry suppresses the urge to groan, knowing that both Eileen and Cynthia would never let him hear the last of it. 

He doesn’t get to test much when it comes to his body. He tries to raise up in the bed, but a hand pressing against his sternum forces him back down. Henry can feel the remnants of the wounds throbbing there. 

He turns his gaze to the right, and there stands Walter, a grimace on his face. Henry feels his throat constrict. “Stay put.” 

He does as he’s told, collapsing back onto the bed with a huff, though there’s no real annoyance there. Henry instead sighs, and plasters his hand across his forehead. “How long have I been out?” 

“A day.” Walter answers simply, seating himself at the end of the bed. Henry tries not to let that make him nervous. 

“A whole day?” It shouldn’t have shocked him. Henry’s mind is still frazzled by everything that had happened. It had all gone down so quickly. 

“Yes. I healed the majority of your wounds.” Walter is still very much covered in the blood of both Jimmy and George, the substance having darkened while it dried. Henry tries not to stare too hard. 

“Thank you… again.” 

Walter remains silent, the gratitude seemingly dismissed for now. He’s still got that expression on his face, the one that reminds Henry of Eileen when he’s done something stupid. “Why were you there, Henry?” 

“Huh?” It feels dumb coming out of his mouth, but Henry can’t stop himself. 

“Why were you there.” Walter’s tone hardens, and Henry tries not to shrink against the bed. 

“I…” He doesn’t really have a good reason. He’d foolishly gone out into the Otherworld in the middle of the night, armed with only one clip of ammo and nothing else. Henry could have told him the truth, could have told Walter that he’d been feeling strange and disjointed and fuzzy. Could have told him about his episode and the recklessness it inspired. But instead, he decides to feign ignorance. “I don’t know. I was looking for more things. I guess that wasn’t smart.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” The blond turns towards Henry, facing him now with all the weight of his gaze. “You shouldn’t act so foolish. You should have known it would be dangerous.” 

“Well, maybe I didn’t really understand the full extent of things.” Henry counters, recalling both George and Jimmy’s conversation. “If I hadn’t gone, you could have been in danger.” 

At that, Walter actually scoffs - scoffs - and it throws Henry for a loop. “They couldn’t have harmed me if they wanted to.” 

“I think they would have found a way. After all,” Henry narrows his eyes at the other for the first time, and he actually sees Walter’s expression falter at that. “They obviously knew things about you that they could use. What did they do to you, Walter?” 

“It’s not important.”

“I think it’s really important.” 

“Your opinion isn’t necessary.” 

Henry tries not to recoil at that. It hurts, strangely enough, and it shows with the way his face falls, his gaze casting downwards to avoid Walter’s own stare. Henry tries to keep the waver out of his voice. “I guess it doesn’t.” 

Walter exhales, and it’s a terribly tired noise. “I didn’t mean to offend.” 

“Well,” At that, Henry actually turns on his side, directing his back towards Walter. “Now I know to keep my mouth shut.” 

Silence hangs heavy in the air between them, and suddenly the tension is not from being face to face with Walter, but instead feeling like he has no place or say in the other’s well being. Henry tries not to let it bother him, but it’s damn near impossible not to feel the sting. He’d devoted so much time to unraveling Walter’s past and everything that had molded him into the person he was now, that it actually hurt to hear that his opinion didn’t matter. He thought… no, he felt that he at least deserved to be heard by the other. 

It was clear though that Walter was unwilling to share that part of himself. Perhaps he didn’t trust Henry enough, or he didn’t even like him. Either way, it made the brunet hurt. He can feel his heart leap into his throat, a tell-tale sign that tears were quickly on the way. 

He wouldn’t cry in front of Walter. Not again. 

He feels something touch lightly at his arm, but he doesn’t turn. He knows Walter is touching him, and it makes him feel so incredibly small being comforted by the person responsible for his death. “I hope you understand, Henry. I… am not comfortable talking about it.” 

“I just want to know what they did to you.” Henry murmurs quietly, his voice nearly muffled by the pillow. 

“Nothing good, I assure you.” 

At that, Henry does turn, and he does it so quickly that he fails to register how close Walter has moved. His words die in his throat as soon as he’s left face to face with the other man, the scent of dried blood and something cold wafting from the other. Henry can feel heat flood his face, for reasons he’s entirely unsure of, but it still makes his cheeks go red. 

He tries to ignore it in hopes that Walter will too. “They did something to you to make you start killing.” Henry grabs lightly at Walter’s arm, lowering it away from his side. “But it didn’t work how they wanted it to, didn’t it?”

“No.” 

“You killed them too. Because… because-” 

“I hated them.” Walter nearly snarls, standing from his sitting spot on the bed. “No matter what they wanted from me, or whatever it is **he** wanted, **I** wanted them dead.”

“He?” Henry echoes. 

Walter hesitates for a moment, his eyes averting to something menial in the room. He seems to be staring at the picture of the Balkan Church over Henry’s desk. “Valtiel.” 

“Valtiel? Who is that?” Henry’s sulking is forgotten in lieu of this new information, and he scoots to the edge of the bed, his arms supporting him on either side.

“An angel of The Order.” 

“And?” Henry desperately wants Walter to clarify, to give him any sort of scraps he could go off of. He’d never dreamed to be hearing the other’s history through his own mouth. 

“And nothing. That’s the end of it, Henry.” Walter turns his back towards the brunet, facing where the door laid in the room. “You should rest more.” 

There was no fighting it, it seemed. It was clear that Walter was reclusive about that part of his past, and no amount of aggressive ‘what’s’ or ‘huhs’ would wring any more information out of him. But Henry was determined. Sooner or later, he would earn that privilege from Walter, and find out the entire truth. 

For now, however, he focused his attention elsewhere. “You’re kind of a mess.” 

“I know.” Walter’s voice slips back into that smooth baritone, all traces of anger having left him. 

“You should clean up. You’ll feel better.” 

“If I do, will you promise not to do anything that reckless again?” Walter casts a final glance over his shoulder. 

“I promise,” Henry swears to him, even mimicking the Scout’s Honor symbol. “I have a feeling Eileen and Cynthia won’t be letting me wander off for a while now.” 

“That’s good. They care about you.” 

“I…” Since waking up, Henry finally feels the first pangs of guilt hit him. Of course they’d been worried, of course they’d be angry. Henry had broken his promise to them, and worse yet, he’d nearly paid dearly for it. “I guess they do.”

“You’re selfless and kind, Henry. Of course they do.” Walter approaches the door and his hand plasters against its surface, but he hesitates for a moment. “Can I use…” 

“What? Oh. This is every bit as much as your home as it is mine now. Go ahead.” 

The blond blinks at that. Once, twice, three times, before turning to gaze at Henry almost sheepishly. He ends up shaking his head, though the faintest bit of a smile can be seen. “Thank you.” 

Henry watches as he leaves the room, exhaling in one big, long gust once he’s finally left alone. For a moment, all he does is stare at the floorboards, mulling over everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Well, at least now he knew for sure that something was bothering Walter, and it wasn’t just simple guilt. The man was harboring a secret, one that obviously meant a lot to him, and Henry was left all the more curious as to what it could be. 

He’s not going to lie down and give up, however. If anything, he’s more determined than ever to get to the bottom of things. Something was still hurting Walter Sullivan, and Henry wouldn’t have any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO plan on writing more for this story. It just might take a while. I gotta build up the inspiration to write, and also work out what direction I wanna take this fic in. So please, just bear with me. Also, any comments you guys leave are of course super appreciated! I love hearing your feedback. <3


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